WEDDED 


AND  PARTED 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED 


BY 

THE  AUTHOR  OF  "DORA  THORNE" 


CHICAGO 

B.  CONKEY  COMPANY 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 
IN  UNIFORM  STYLE 


DORA   THORNE 
FROM  GLOOM  TO  SUNLIGHT 
HER  MARTYRDOM 
GOLDEN  HEAR  T 
HER  ONLY  SIN 
LADY  DAMER'S  SECRET 
THE  SQUIRES  DARLING 
HER  MOTHER'S  SIN 
WIFE  IN  NAME  ONLY 
WEDDED  AND  PARTED 
SHADO  W  OF  A  SIN 


CHICAGO 
W.  B.  CONKEY  COMPANY 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  Lady  lanthe  Carre  had  always  been  considered 
one  of  the  proudest  girls  in  England.  It  was  no  new 
title  ;  it  had  been  given  by  her  nurses  in  early  years — 
by  the  fair,  haughty  mother  who  had  not  lived  to  keep 
her  child's  pride  in  check — by  the  old  earl  her  father, 
who  had  boasted  of  it — by  governesses  and  masters — by 
friends  and  companions — by  every  one,  in  short,  with 
whom  she  came  in  contact. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve,  and,  if  ever  Lady  lanthe  felt 
tempted  to  be  proud,  it  was  on  this  evening,  when  she 
stood  in  her  magnificent  dressing-room  with  her  jewels 
and  rich  dress  all  ready  for  use.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  a  feeling  of  pride  hardly  accorded  with  the  season 
which  should  be  marked  by  peace,  good  will,  and  sweet- 
est humility — when,  if  ever,  lessons  of  meekness  and 
gentleness  were  to  be  learned.  Nothing  of  this  occurred 
to  Lady  lanthe.  Her  artistic  mind  did  homage  to  the 
beauty  of  the  season.  She  had  stood  for  an  hour  or 
more  at  the  window  watching  the  scene  before  her  and 
admiring  it.  But  that  was  all ;  the  time  and  season 
brought  her  no  higher  thoughts. 

It  was  very  lovely,  the  scene  upon  which  she  gazed, 

(3) 


2135141 


4  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

the  darkening  sky  with  its  gleaming  stars  contrasting 
with  the  white  earth.  No  snow  had  fallen,  although 
those  who  were  weather-wise  said  it  was  piled  up  behind 
the  clouds ;  but  there  had  been  for  some  days  a  sharp, 
severe  frost — a  frost  that  made  the  earth  shine  and  sparkle 
like  silver  network.  The  bare  hedges  and  leafless  trees 
glistened  with  it — icicles,  like  great  diamonds,  hung  from 
the  gates,  from  the  eaves  of  the  houses,  from  the  square 
turrets  of  the  Abbey.  The  roads  were  hard  and  firm — 
a  northeast  wind  was  blowing,  cold,  sharp,  and  keen.  It 
bent  the  tall,  bare  trees,  it  shook  the  berries  from  the 
holly,  it  stirred  the  white  flowers  of  the  laurustinus,  it 
tried  to  tear  the  mistletoe  from  the  stout  old  oak,  it 
raised  its  voice  at  times  and  wailed  aloud. 

From  far  away  over  the  Lea  Woods  came  the  distant 
sound  of  the  Christmas  bells — from  afar  off  came  the 
distant  booming  of  the  waves :  while  the  light  of  the 
stars  grew  brighter  as  the  night  wore  on.  Over  all — over 
the  distant  sea,  with  its  silvery  waves  and  crested  foam, 
over  the  broad  stretch  of  woodlands,  over  the  pretty 
town  of  Leahurst,  over  the  sleeping  woods,  over  the 
broad  pleasure-grounds  and  the  frozen  lake — over  the 
whole  land  brooded  a  deep  calm,  a.  sweet,  holy  silence. 

With  the  eye  of  an  artist  and  the  soul  of  a  poet,  Lady 
lanthe  stood  looking  from  the  window  of  her  dressing- 
room.  Presently  she  turned  from  the  darkening  sky  and 
the  frost-silvered  earth  to  the  warm,  cosey  room,  with  its 
cheerful  light  and  gay  coloring.  She  went  to  the  toilet- 
table,  where  the  maid  stood  awaiting  her — where,  in 
fact,  she  had  been  standing  for  the  last  half- hour,  not 
daring  to  disturb  the  reverie  of  her  young  mistress. 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  6 

Lady  lanthe  looked  at  her  small  jewelled  watch.  It  was 
not  late. 

"I  will  give  one  look,"  she  said  to  her  maid,  "just 
to  see  that  all  is  order  before  I  dress." 

She  opened  the  door  of  her  room  and  smiled  at  the 
warmth,  the  fragrance,  the  beauty,  that  surrounded  her. 
The  broad  stairs  were  covered  with  crimson  cloth,  which 
contrasted  with  the  white  statues  to  be  seen  on  every 
landing,  and  with  great  stands  of  rare  flowers  that  filled 
the  house  with  their  perfume,  and  Christmas  evergreens 
arranged  in  rich  profusion  and  with  greatest  taste.  A 
marble  Flora  stood  in  a  bower  of  holly — Clytie's  beauti- 
ful head  smiled  from  a  background  of  mistletoe — the  huge 
picture-frames  had  wreaths  of  shining  laurel  round  them. 

Lady  lanthe  went  down  the  broad  staircase.  The 
great  entrance-hall  was  brilliantly  lighted,  and  looked 
like  a  miniature  forest  cf  evergreens.  She  opened  the 
door  of  the  state  dining-room,  and  saw  at  a  glance  that 
all  was  right ;  then  she  went  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
smiled  again  as  a  most  magnificent  scene  broke  upon  her. 
The  noble  room,  with  its  gorgeously  painted  ceiling, 
lighted  by  innumerable  wax  tapers  that  gleamed  from 
among  the  evergreens  like  stars,  the  exquisite  scent  of 
rare  exotics,  the  silvery  spray  of  the  tiny  scented  fount- 
ains, the  rich  glow  of  the  Yule-log,  the  choice  pictures 
and  graceful  statues — all  made  up  a  scene  that  was  rarely 
equalled.  Lady  lanthe  smiled  to  herself.  All  was  as  it 
should  be. 

The  stately  old  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Charles,  met  her  in 
the  hall,  and  with  a  profound  bow  advanced  to  speak  to 
her. 


6  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

"My  lady,"  she  said,  "  may  I  ask  if  you  have  seen 
his  lordship  lately  ?  " 

"Not  since  luncheon,"  replied  Lady  lanthe. 

"  Because,"  continued  the  housekeeper,  "  I  saw  Lord 
Carre  an  hour  since,  and  I  thought  he  was  looking  ex- 
ceedingly ill." 

"  111?  "  repeated  Lady  lanthe.  "  Then  why  did  you 
not  come  to  me  at  once  ?  ' ' 

Without  waiting  for  the  housekeeper's  answer,  she 
hastened  up  the  broad  staircase  to  her  father's  room. 
Mrs.  Charles  looked  after  her. 

"She  is  beautiful  and  bonny,"  she  said  to  herself ; 
"  but  what  they  say  of  her  is  true — she  is  one  of  the 
proudest  girls  in  England." 

Lady  lanthe  knocked  gently  at  the  door  of  her  fath- 
er's room. 

"  Come  in  !  "  called  a  weak,  faint  voice. 

She  entered  quickly,  and  hastened  to  the  drooping 
figure  seated  by  the  fire — an  old  man,  with  snow-white 
hair,  a  delicate,  refined,  aristocratic  face,  and  eyes 
dimmed  with  years  and  cares.  His  trembling  white 
hands  were  clasped  tightly  when  she  entered — was  it  the 
shining  firelight,  or  were  there  traces  of  tears  on  the 
worn  face  ?  She  knelt  by  his  side,  and  clasped  her  arms 
around  him. 

"  Dear  father,"  she  said,  "they  tell  me  you  are  look- 
ing ill.  Do  you  feel  so  ?  " 

The  sweet  musical  voice  soothed  and  charmed  him. 
He  looked  at  the  beautiful,  eager  face. 

"  111,  my  darling — ill  on  Christmas  Eve?     When  you 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  7 

give  your  grand  ball  do  you  think  I  would  pay  you  so 
poor  a  compliment  ?  " 

She  looked  wistfully  into  his  face.  It  grew  calmer 
and  steadier  under  her  gaze. 

"  You  do  not  look  ill,"  she  said ;  "  but  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  sound  of  your  voice  that  I  do  not  like. 
Are  you  keeping  anything  from  me — any  bad  news, 
papa?  '* 

"Bad  news  on  Christmas  Eve!  You  are  joking, 
lanthe.  Who  has  frightened  you  ?  Who  has  told  you 
that  I  am  ill?" 

"Mrs.  Charles." 

The  earl  interrupted  her  with  a  laugh. 

"That  is  because  I  sent  to  the  housekeeper's  room  for 
a  strong  cordial/"  he  said.  "  You  may  be  quite  at  ease 
about  me,  lanthe ;  I  am  not  ill.  How  do  you  like  Lord 
Ravenscourt,  my  darling  ?  " 

"  I  like  him  very  well,  though  I  had  not  much  time 
to  spend  with  him,"  she  replied,  evasively. 

"  1  shall  be  well  pleased,"  observed  the  old  earl,  "  if 
you  approve  of  him,  lanthe ;  he  is  wealthy,  and  his  is 
one  of  the  "oldest  titles  in  England.  I  am  ambitious  for 
you,  but  I  think  that  I  should  be  content  to  see  you  Lady 
Ravenscourte" 

The  fair,  stately  head  was  raised  in  disdain. 

"I  am  in  no  hurry  to  marry,  papa ;  I  shall  never  love 
any  one  in  the  wide  world  so  well  as  I  love  you." 

The  thin  hands  trembled  as  they  rested  on  the  proud 
head. 

"Still,  my  darling,  it  would  comfort  me;  I  should 
like  to  know,  when  I  am  called  away,  that  I  had  left  you 


8  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

in  safe  hands.  Try  to  like  Lord  Ravenscourt  if  you  can, 
lanthe.  Now  it  is  time  for  you  to  dress.  You  will  wear 
the  famous  Carre  diamonds  to-night.  It  is  your  eight- 
eenth birthday,  and  the  Ladies  Carre  were  always  con- 
sidered of  age  at  eighteen." 

Lady  lanthe-smiled  a  grave,  sweet  smile  that  softened 
her  face  into  startling  loveliness. 

"I  came  of  age  long  ago,  papa,"  she  said;  "I  can 
hardly  believe  that  I  am  but  eighteen.  I  have  been  mis- 
tress of  Croombe  Abbey  so  long  that  I  have  forgotten 
what  it  was  to  be  a  child.  You  will  be  punctual,  papa,  for 
the  dinner  !  No  more  dreaming  over  the  fire  !  Shall  I 
call  Morgan?"  She  bent  down  and  kissed  his  face. 
"I  wish,"  she  continued,  laughingly,  "that  I  could  kiss 
every  line  and  every  wrinkle  away  from  your  face,  papa, 
and  make  you  quite  young  and  handsome  again.  Re- 
member, I  am  to  be  the  first  to  wish  you  a  happy  Christ- 
mas. I  shall  come  to  show  you  the  Carre  diamonds ; 
you  will  wait  here  for  me." 

In  another  minute  she  was  gone.  The  old  earl  met 
her  glance  at  the  door  with  a  smile,  and  then,  when  the 
door  had  closed,  and  he  was  alone,  a  look  of  almost 
ghastly  fear  came  over  his  face. 

"  How  shall  I  tell  her?  "  he  cried,  wringing  his  hands.- 
"How  shall  I  live  through  the  mockery  and  deceit? 
How  bear  to  see  her  surrounded  as  she  will  be  this  even- 
ing—know the  truth,  and  yet  not  tell  her  ?  " 

His  lips  trembled,  and  he  bowed  his  white  head,  as 
though  the  storms  and  tempests  of  life  had  been  toe 
many  for  him. 

"Not  to-night,"  he  said— "she  shall  not  know  to- 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  9 

night.  She  is  so  young  and  so  happy,  so  beautiful  and 
so  proud,  she  shall  have  this  one  night  of  perfect  happi- 
ness, and  to-morrow  I  will  tell  her  all." 

Half  consoled,  half  suspicious,  Lady  lanthe  had  gone 
-  back  to  her  dressing-room  ;  she  knew  her  father  so  well, 
she  loved  him  so  dearly,  with  such  utter  and  entire  de- 
votion, that  it  was  hard  to  deceive  her. 

"He  does  not  look  ill,"  she  said;  "but  there  was 
something  strange  in  his  voice — something  I  have  never 
heard  before." 

The  wind  wailed  mournfully  round  the  house — moaned 
fitfully — and,  despite  the  warmth  of  her  luxurious  room, 
Lady  lanthe  shivered. 

"  The  Carres  have  their  faults,"  she  said  ;  "  but  they 
are  not  superstitious.  What  is  this  strange  fancy  that 
has  come  over  me  ?  " 

She  forgot  the  wind  and  her  cold  shudder  of  forebod- 
ing when  she  saw  the  costly  diamonds,  the  family  heir- 
looms, that  became  hers  on  that  day.  She  put  on  the 
dress  of  pale  rose-colored  brocade  with  rich  white  lace. 
She  was  tall  and  slim — this  proud  daughter  of  a  proud 
race — with  a  graceful  figure  of  perfect  symmetry,  while 
sloping  shoulders,  a  slender  throat,  hands  and  arms  of 
exquisite  shape  and  color ;  and  her  movements  were  all 
grace  and  harmony.  She  had  a  queenly  bearing — a  cer- 
tain sweet  and  gracious  dignity  that  never  deserted  her 
— and  a  face  that  had  in  it  all  the  proud,  bright  beauty 
of  the  Carres — dark,  proud  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  out 
with  serene  stateliness  on  the  world,  passionate,  beauti- 
ful eyes  that  could  express  both  love  and  scorn,  straight 
clear  brows — a  faultless  face,  oval  in  contour,  with  the 


JjQ  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

most  exquisite  bloom,  surmounted  by  masses  of  dark 
hair,  which  had  a  natural  ripple. 

Eighteen  years  old  that  day,  the  sole  daughter  of  one 
of  the  noblest  and  most  ancient  families  in  England, 
beautiful  as  the  fairest  dream  of  artist  or  poet,  accom- 
plished, gifted,  could  any  fate  seem  more  happy  than 
that  awaiting  lanthe  Carre?  On  this,  her  eighteenth 
birthday — Christmas  Eve — she  came  of  age,  and,  by 
her  own  special  wish,  the  day  was  to  be  celebrated  by  a 
grand  ball. 

Much  to  the  old  earl's  delight,  he  had  received  a  letter 
from  Lord  Ravenscourt,  saying  that  he  should  be  in  the 
neighborhood  at  Christmas,  and  how  much  pleasure  it 
would  give  him  to  spend  a  day  or  two  at  Croombe  Abbey 
— the  answer  to  which  was,  of  course,  a  cordial  invita- 
tion for  the  birthday  ball. 

There  were  several  other  visitors  in  the  house — Lord 
and  Lady  Morston,  Sir  Harry  Tredegar — who  was  one 
of  Lady  lanthe's  most  devoted  admirers — Miss  Bel- 
houghton,  the  pretty  blonde  Alice  Lowther — a  pleasant 
party  of  guests,  assembled  to  do  honor  to  the  beautiful 
Lady  lanthe,  and  to  spend  Christmas  under  the  hospit- 
able roof  of  Croombe  Abbey. 

Lady  lanthe  had  been  busily  engaged,  for  she  was  sole 
mistress  of  that  magnificent  mansion.  She  was  a  perfect 
and  most  gracious  hostess — ladies  of  twice  her  age  envied 
her  tact  and  judgment  on  this  Christmas  Eve.  She  had 
found  her  powers  fully  taxed,  but  she  had  also  found 
herself  equal  to  the  occasion.  Still  it  was  late  when  she 
had  gone  to  her  dressing-room ;  yet  no  one  could  have 
told  that  her  toilet  had  been  hurried — even  her  own  ex- 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  11 

quisite  and  fastidious  taste  was  gratified.  The  pale  rose 
brocade  showed  the  white  shoulders  and  graceful  neck ; 
the  white  rounded  arms  were  clasped  by  a  diamond 
bracelet ;  a  necklace  of  the  same  costly  jewels  adorned 
the  beautiful  neck,  diamonds  shone  in  the  masses  of  rich 
hair  and  in  the  shell-like  ears. 

Nevertheless,  although  she  was  one  of  the  proudest 
girls  in  England,  she  thought  more  of  the  old  earl's  ad- 
miration when  he  should  see  her  in  her  jewels  than  of 
her  own  pleasure  in  wearing  them.  She  took  the  jew- 
elled fan,  the  lace  handkerchief,  her  bouquet  of  flowers, 
and  went  to  his  room,  one  of  the  brightest  pictures  of 
girlish  loveliness  and  womanly  grace  ever  seen.  She 
laughed  aloud — a  low,  sweet,  musical  laugh — that 
seemed  to  stir  the  old  man's  heart  as  she  bowed  before 
him,  and  then  she  raised  her  clear  dark  eyes  to  his. 

"  Do  you  admire  me,  papa?" 

"You  are  the  queen  of  fair  women,"  he  said;  and, 
she  having  taken  his  arm,  they  went  down  the  grand 
staircase  together. 

There  was  a  slight  murmur  as  they  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room. Lady  lanthe  had  never  looked  so  beautiful. 
Lord  Ravenscourt  hastened  to  meet  and  greet  her. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  see  then  that  her  words  were 
true — of  all  the  world  she  loved  her  father  the  best.  No 
lovers,  no  admirers,  could  draw  her  attention  from  him. 
Handsome  young  faces,  admiring  eyes  sued  in  vain. 
Lord  Ravenscourt  would  have  given  much  for  a  tete-a- 
tete  for  a  few  minutes,  in  which  to  whisper  his  admira- 
tion ;  but  he  could  not  draw  Lady  lanthe  from  the  old 
earl's  side. 


12  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

The  great  gong  sounded,  and  they  all  went  to  the  din- 
ing-room where  the  grand  Christmas  banquet  was  spread 
—while  Lady  lanthe  did  the  honors. with  a  winning, 
stately  grace ;  and  no  one  knew,  while  Christmas  greet- 
ings and  good  wishes  went  around,  how  the  earl  was 
praying  in  his  heart  that  the  greatness  of  his  anguish 
might  not  slay  him— that  he  might  have  strength  to  en- 
dure a  little  longer,  for  his  daughter's  sake.  No  one 
knew  how  he  looked  at  her  with  the  calmness  of  deadly 
despair  in  his  heart,  the  anguish  of  a  mighty  dread  in 
his  soul,  asking  himself,  over  and  over  again  how  he  was 
to  tell  her. 

Presently  he  raised  his  white  head  in  wonder.  What 
were  they  wishing  him  ?  "A  merry  Christmas  and  a 
happy  New  Year!"  He  thanked  them,  in  his  court- 
eous, high-bred  fashion.  How  could  they  know  the  ter- 
rible death-wound  that  Christmas  Eve  had  brought  him? 
"  A  happy  New  Year  " — why,  it  would  be  the  first  year 
of  his  long  life  to  dawn  in  darkness,  gloom,  and  shame  ! 

Then  the  long  and  magnificent  banquet  came  to  an 
end,  and  he  went,  with  Lady  lanthe,  to  receive  their 
fast-arriving  guests.  Before  long  the  grand  old  walls  of 
Croombe  Abbey  seemed  to  re-echo  with  mirth  and 
amusement.  The  old  earl  saw  that  Lord  Ravenscourt 
paid  his  daughter  great  attention  ;  but  he  could  not  see 
that  his  beautiful  lanthe  was  more  gracious  to  him  than 
to  others.  Once  she  refused  to  join  in  the  dance,  but 
came,  instead,  and  stood  by  his  side.  He  looked  at  her 
— the  light  in  her  jewels  was  not  so  bright  as  the  light  in 
her  eyes.  Her  dress  of  pale  rich  rose  fell  round  her  in 
graceful  folds — her  fan,  made  of  the  rich  plumage  of 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  13 

some  tropical  bird,  was  opened,  and  held  against  her 
white  breast — her  lovely  face  was  flushed  with  girlish 
happiness  and  delight. 

"  lanthe,"  he  .said,  quietly,  "I  think  you  are  very 
happy." 

She  raised  her  radiant  eyes  to  his. 

"  Happy,  papa !  That  is  a  small  word  to  express 
what  I  feel.  I  am  wonderfully  happy.  I  would  not 
change  places  with  any  one  in  the  wide  world." 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  "  if  you  could  tell  me  what 
makes  you  happy  ?  ' ' 

She  laughed,  and  the  light  gleamed  in  her  jewels. 

"I  can  give  you  a  faint  idea,"  she  replied.  "I  am 
happy  because  I  love  you  and  have  in  t  you  one  of  the 
dearest  of  fathers — my  ideal  gentleman.  I  am  happy 
because  I  belong  to  a  grand  old  race,  on  whose  name 
there  has  never  rested  a  stain,  on  whose  shield  there  has 
been  no  blot,  and  because  I  am  what  all  the  Carres  are, 
pleasant  to  see,  because  I  am  young,  and  my  life,  all  full 
of  bright  possibilities,  lies  before  me." 

The  least  gleam  of  mischief  came  into  her  eyes,  and 
she  looked  at  him  with  a  bright  smile. 

"  I  am  happy  too,  because  I  am  queen  of  myself  and 
all  that  surrounds  me — also  because  my  heart  is  light  and 
free.  Are  those  reasons  sufficient,  papa?" 

"More  than  enough,"  he  replied;  and  then,  as  she 
went  away,  he  asked  himself  how  he  was  to  take  this 
sparkling  cup  of  life  from  her  lips — how  he  was  to 
change  her  innocent  gladness  into  deepest  misery.  From 
his  lips  came  the  prayer : 


14  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

"  Oh,  Heaven  help  me  to  bear  my  sorrow,  or  save  me 
from  it!" 

Once  again  he  looked  at  his  child  as  she  stood  where 
the  light  of  a  large  chandelier  fell  full  upon  her ;  and  he 
said  to  himself  it  would  be  easier — much  easier — to 
place  her  in  her  coffin  and  kiss  her  dead  face  than  to  tell 
her  what  he  had  to  tell.  Yet  it  must  be  told,  and  the 
time  was  drawing  very  near. 

The  ball  was  over  at  last,  and  the  guests  wearied  with 
pleasure,  had  driven  home  under  the  light  of  the  Christ- 
mas moon ;  the  lights  had  been  extinguished — the  man- 
tle of  darkness  and  silence  had  fallen  over  Croombe  Ab- 
bey. Lady  lanthe  slept,  dreaming  of  jewels  and  flowers 
and  sweet  whispered  words ;  but  the  earl  paced  to  and 
fro — wringing  his  hands — with  bitter  sighs  that  ended  in 
low  broken  wailing.  He  wandered  with  a  light  in  his 
hand  to  the  great  picture  gallery,  and  stood  before  the 
portrait  of  his  dead  father.  He  placed  the  taper  on  the 
ground,  and  looked  up  at  the  face  so  noble  and  so  stern. 

"What  have  I  done  with  it,"  he  cried,  wringing  his 
hands — "  this  fair  inheritance — this  spotless  name — 
what  have  I  done  with  it  ?  I  am  the  last  of  my  race, 
but  I  have  been  the  first  to  act  dishonorably.  It  will  be 
said  that  I  was  weak  and  easily  tempted — that  I  could 
not  distinguish  rogues  from  honest  men.  They  will 
brand  my  name  as  name  has  never  been  branded  before. 
They  will  say,  'Maurice,  the  eleventh  earl,  left  his 
family  name  ruined — left,  in  fact,  less  than  nothing.' 
Yet  I  meant  to  add  so  much  to  the  glory  of  my  name. 
What  have  I  done?  Oh,  Heaven,  what  have  I  done ? " 

It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  old  man  fall  down  before  his 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  15 

father*s  picture,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  weeping 
aloud  and  praying  Heaven  to  pardon  "him. 

Then  he  rose.  Christmas  morning  had  broken  ;  the 
light  of  the  moon  and  the  stars  had  given  place  to  the 
early  dawn ;  the  sky  was  gray,  the  frost  had  deepened. 
He  must  not  be  found  there  by  his  servants ;  they  would 
know  soon  enough  what  had  happened.  Let  him  save 
his  credit  while  he  could.  He  went  back  to  his  own 
room,  carefully  closing  the  door.  The  day  had  dawned 
— the  day  on  which  he  had  to  tell  her — to  strike  with 
his  own  hands  all  the  brightness  and  light  from  his 
daughter's  life.  If  he  could  but  avert  the  blow  !  He 
knew  that  the  worst  of  the  evil  must  fall  on  his  beautiful 
daughter ;  and  how  would  she,  one  of  the  proudest  girls 
in  England,  bear  the  blame  ? 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  came  of  a  heroic  race — a 
race  whose  sons  had  high  hearts  and  noble  souls,  who 
knew  nothing  of  the  craven  called  fear — for,  though  he 
had  spent  the  night  in  aimless  wandering,  in  restless 
prayers,  in  bewildered  grief  and  remorse,  he  was  at  his 
place  on  Christmas  morning  ready  to  welcome  his  vis- 
itors and  wish  them  the  joys  of  a  season  that  had  no 
joy  for  him. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  was  come  at  last,  the  hour  in  which  the  old  earl 
must  tell  his  daughter  all — the  hour  in  which  he  must 
rob  the  young  life  of  its  brightness  and  its  hopes. 


16  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

He  chose  the  time  when  all  the  house  was  silent- 
midnight — when  the  visitors  had  gone  to  rest,  and  the 
servants  had  all  retired.  He  should  have  her  all  to  him- 
self then,  and  he  could  soothe  her  first  outbreak  of  sor- 
row. He  had  said  to  her : 

"  lanthe,  when  the  house  is  all  silent  to-night,  will 
you  come  to  the  library  ?  I  want  to  see  you — I  want  to 
talk  to  you." 

She  had  answered  him  laughingly,  not  feeling  in  the 
least  surprised.  It  was  the  day  after  her  birthday  ;  per- 
haps he  had  something  to  say  to  her  regarding  the  family 
jewels  or  the  arrangements  for  her  coming  of  age. 
Never  a  doubt  crossed  her  mind.  She  dismissed  her 
rnaid,  saying  that  she  was  not  ready  for  her  yet,  and 
that  she  need  not  wait.  Then  she  removed  the  jewels 
from  her  beautiful  hair  and  her  white  neck,  took  off  her 
costly  evening  dress,  and  put  on  a  warm  white  wrapper. 
There  was  a  smile  on  her  lips  as  she  made  these  prepa- 
rations. 

"  Now  I  can  talk  at  my  ease,"  she  said  to  herself. 

She  went  down  quietly  to  the  library,  wondering  why 
her  father  had  chosen  this  strange,  weird  hour  of  night 
— wondering  why  it  was  so  urgent  that  he  should  shorten 
his  rest  and  hers. 

She  had  never  known  the  sensation  of  fear,  but  she 
shuddered  a  little  as  she  went  down  the  great  staircase. 
The  taper  that  she  carried  seemed  to  throw  such  strange 
lights  and  shades ;  the  evergreens  on  the  walls  seemed 
to  nod  as  she  passed  by. 

"  A  large  house  in  the  silence  and  gloom  of  night  is 
not  very  cheerful,"  thought  Lady  lanthe. 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  17 

Then  she  opened  the  door,  and  saw  the  earl  sitting  by 
the  fire.  She  placed  the  taper  on  the  table  and  went  up 
to  him.  She  clasped  her  tender  arms  round  his  neck. 

"This  is  quite  mysterious,  papa,"  she  said — "  this 
midnight  meeting." 

She  started  when  she  saw  his  white  face  and  trem- 
bling lips.  „ 

"  What  is  the  matter,  papa  ?  "  she  cried.  "  You  are 
ill,  or  you  have  bad  news  to  tell  me.  Your  face  is 
changed.  What  is  it?" 

She  knelt  down  by  his  side  and  laid  her  fair  face  on 
his  hands. 

"Tell  me,  papa — I  am  always  your  comforter — tell 
me  what  has  gone  wrong  this  bright,  happy  Christmas- 
tide." 

She  never  forgot  the  pale,  worn  face  that  was  bent 
over  hers. 

"  It  is  to  tell  you  all,  lanthe,  that  I  asked  you  to  come 
here ;  and  many  a  criminal  has  faced  his  judge,  many  a 
traitor  his  king,  many  a  coward  his  foe,  with  far  less  of 
fear  than  I  have  of  facing  you,  my  only  child,  because 
of  what  I  have  done. ' ' 

She  was  all  attention  now.  The  smiles  had  died  from 
her  lips,  the  playfulness  from  her  manner ;  her  sweet, 
frank  eyes,  full  of  wonder,  were  looking  at  him,  and  he 
seemed  to  cower  before  the  clear,  bright  glance. 

"  What  you  have  done  ?  "  she  echoed,  slowly.  "  I  do 
not  know  what  that  may  be ;  but  of  one  thing  I  am  quite 
sure — you  have  done  nothing  unworthy  of  a  Carre." 

"  Alas,  alas  !  "  moaned  the  old  Earl,  as  he  bowed  his 
head. 

2 


18  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

"  You  shall  not  frighten  me,"  she  said.  "I  am  sure 
of  it.  You  may  have  mistaken  a  shadow  for  substance, 
a  dream  for  reality ;  but  you  have  done  nothing  un- 
worthy of  a  Carre.  You  have  the  tender,  sensitive  con- 
science of  a  gentleman,  and  you  are  making  much  of  a 
trifle.  You  have  done  nothing  a  gentleman  should  not 
do." 

"  Alas,"  he  moaned,  "  when  I  began  life  I  had  grand, 
noble  dreams — I  meant  to  do  what  no  Carre  before  me 
had  ever  done !  How  miserably  I  have  failed  only 
Heaven  knows." 

"You  may  say  what  you  like,  papa — you  will  never 
destroy  my  faith  in  you.  I  could  sooner  believe  that  the 
stars  gave  no  light,  that  Heaven  was  unkind,  that  the 
sun  was  dark,  than  believe  that  you  had  done  wrong. 
A  Carre  do  wrong  !  Papa,  you  speak  thoughtlessly  !  " 

"Listen  to  me,  lanthe  !  "  he  cried.  "If  I  could 
give  my  life  to  undo  what  I  have  done,  I  would  give  it 
cheerfully ;  if  any  pain,  any  suffering,  any  torture  of 
mine  could  avail,  I  would  bear  it.  Nothing  is  of  any 
avail ,  and  yet  I  meant  and  hoped  that  it  would  all  be  so 
different." 

She  was  growing  alarmed  now.  What  evil  idea  pos- 
sessed him  ?  What  guileless  folly  had  he  magnified  into 
a  wrong  ? 

"  Papa,  will  you  tell  me  what  it  is?  Do  not  tremble 
so.  If  you  had  done  all  the  wrong  in  the  world,  it 
would  make  no  difference  to  me — I  should  but  love  you 
all  the  more,  all  the  better.  If  the  whole  world  turned 
round  upon  you  and  accused  you,  I  should  uphold  you. 
Remember  how  I  Ipve  you." 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  19 

She  smoothed  the  white  hair  from  the  careworn  brow ; 
she  kissed  the  deep  lines  that  furrowed  the  thin  face. 

"  My  darling,"  she  cried  passionately,  "if  you  knew 
how  I  love  you  !  All  the  love  that  other  girls  divide  be- 
tween mothers,  sisters,  brothers,  friends,  I  have  given  to 
you." 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  girl's  deep  at- 
tachment to  her  father.  Listening  to  her,  one  could 
have  fancied  her  a  mother  talking  to  a  child. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  she  said.  "  I  wish  I  could  know  it 
without,  as  telling  will  give  you  pain ;  but  that  cannot 
be." 

A  dreary,  far-off  look  came  into  the  old  man's  eyes ; 
his  thoughts  seemed  to  have  wandered.  She  recalled 
them  by  touching  his  forehead  with  her  lips;  he  started 
as  though  she  had  roused  him  from  sleep. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  think,  lanthe,"  he  said,  "how 
far  I  am  guilty,  but  I  cannot  tell ;  my  thoughts  are  in  a 
tangle.  For  example,  if  a  man  be  born  with  an  over- 
whelming tendency  to  any  one  thing,  how  far  is  he  cul- 
pable in  yielding  to  it?  " 

"You  cannot  put  such  a  question,"  replied  lanthe. 
"  There  is  the  limit  of  right  and  wrong ;  no  strong  ten- 
dency can  excuse  wrong-doing." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  the  old  Earl,  with  a  sigh. 
"Some  men  are  born  poets — they  must  write  poetry; 
some  are  born  artists — they  must  paint  pictures.  I  was 
born  a  speculator — therefore  I  have  been  compelled  to 
speculate." 

But  Lady  lanthe  had  been  raised  too  far  above  the  or- 
dinary grooves  of  life  to  know  how  much  the  term 


20  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

"speculator"  may  be  made  to  convey.  She  repeated 
the  word  dreamily — it  had  no  terrors  for  her. 

"A  speculator,  papa?  There  is  nothing  dreadful  in 
that,  is  there  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  if  a  man  is  never  content,  never 
satisfied." 

"  But  you,"  she  said,  wonderingly — "  how  could  you 
be  that?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  child,  when  1  was  ever  anything 
else.  The  first  thing  I  did  when  I  came  into  possession 
of  my  estates  was  to  speculate.  Sometimes  I  won 
largely ;  sometimes  I  lost.  Winning  or  losing,  the  mad- 
ness grew  on  me.  Do  you  understand  the  kind  of  spec- 
ulation I  mean,  lanthe  ?  Perhaps  I  should  rather  call  it 
gambling — it  is  gambling  after  all ;  and  the  same  fever 
fires  the  veins  of  speculator  and  gambler.  One  day 
through  my  agent,  who  turned  out  afterward  to  be  a 
most  unscrupulous  rogue,  I  would  purchase  stock,  hold 
it  for  a  few  days,  and  then  by  selling  it  realize  some 
thousands  of  pounds ;  afterward  I  lost  even  more  heavily 
than  I  had  won.  Fifteen  years  since,"  continued  the 
old  Earl,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "I  lost  what  was  to  me  a 
terrible  sum.  To  meet  it  I  was  compelled  to  mortgage 
Croombe  Abbey ;  a  continuous  run  of  ill  luck  left  me  no 
other  resource.  Listen,  lanthe.  That  ten  thousand 
pounds  for  which  I  mortgaged  this  fair  house  and  broad 
domain  was  lent  to  me  by  John  Culross,  a  wealthy  man- 
ufacturer. You  remember  his  son,  Herman  Culross  ?  " 

A  smile  of  unutterable  contempt  curled  the  proud  lip 
of  Lady  lanthe,  but  she  made  no  reply. 

"  That,"  he  went  on,  "  did  not  trouble  me  very  much, 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  21 

I  might  have  saved  the  amount,  but  that  I  have  always 
lived  up  to  my  income.  I  thought  one  good  speculation 
would  pay  for  all.  Two  years  since  I  was  grievously 
tempted,  lanthe.  A  new  company  was  started.  It  was 
to  be  confined  to  a  few,  and  great  hopes  were  enter- 
tained of  it.  It  was  for  the  working  of  a  silver  mine  in 
Mexico.  My  agent  came  to  see  me  about  it.  He  could 
think  and  talk  of  nothing  save  the  enormous  profits  to  be 
realized — the  vast  sums  to  be  made.  I  was  greedy — ah, 
lanthe,  how  my  greed  has  been  punished  !  They  told 
me  that  any  one  who  could  invest  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds  in  that  mine  would  soon  be  a  millionaire.  I  read 
all  the  papers,  I  studied  the  figures,  I  thought  long  and 
anxiously  about  it.  Then  the  love  of  greed  and  specu- 
lation mastered  me.  I  went  to  London,  and  met  several 
men  of  business.  They  all  spoke  highly  of  the  mine. 
So  I  gathered  all  the  money  I  could  from  every  source — 
I  mortgaged  my  income  for  the  next  three  years — I 
raised  the  two  hundred  thousand  pounds.  After  waiting 
impatiently  for  some  return — for  cheerful  news — on 
Christmas-eve  the  blow  fell.  Then  were  realized  my 
worst  fears.  The  mine  has  proved  a  complete  failure, 
and  I  am  a  ruined  man — a  ruined  man,"  repeated  the 
old  Earl,  with  a  terrible  gesture  of  despair.  "  Maurice, 
Lord  Carre  is  hopelessly  ruined ;  he  is  the  first  Carre 
who  has  brought  -even  the  faintest  shadow  of  disgrace  on 
the  name.  Oh,  lanthe,  have  you  any  pity  for  me? 
Have  you  anything  save  contempt?" 

"  You  did  it  for  the  best,"  she  murmured. 

"You  have  not  heard  all  yet,  lanthe.  Six  months 
since  they  wrote  to  me — those  men  who  have  ruined  me 


22  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

— and  asked  for  a  further  advance  of  five  thousand 
pounda  It  was  needed,  they  said,  for  the  further 
working  of  the  mine ;  and  after  that  the  enor- 
mous profits  would  begin." 

He  stretched  out  his  hands,  as  though  he  would 
avoid  some  terrible  spectre. 

"Before  Heaven,  Ian  the,"  he  cried,  huskily, 
"I  have  never  seen  the  full  extent  of  what  I  have 
done  until  now.  Men  might  turn  round  and  call 
me  thief." 

"No,  it  cannot  be  so  bad  as  that,  papa,"  she 
exclaimed.  ' '  Tell  me  all. ' ' 

"I  am  your  cousin  Wyndham  Carre's  guardian, 
and  he  has  a  small  fortune  of  five  thousand  pounds, 
which  he  left  in  my  charge.  It  was  invested  in 
banking  shares,  and  brought  him  in  a  small  but 
certain  income.  When  he  was  going  to  India,  he 
said,  laughingly,  that  he  knew  I  had  a  good  head 
for  business,  and  that,  if  ever  I  saw  a  chance  of 
turning  his  five  per  cent,  into  ten,  I  was  to  do  it. 
When  they  wrote  to  me  for  this  last  five  thousand 
pounds,  thinking  I  was  helping  to  make  his  for- 
tune as  well  as  treble  my  own,  without  awaiting 
his  permission,  I  sent  it ;  and  it  is  all  lost,  Ian  the. 
Could  any  man  be  so  mad,  so  foolish  as  I  have 
been?" 

"You  must  pay  it  back,  papa,"  she  said,  cheer- 
fully. "You  did  not  intend  to  lose  it." 

"Pay  it  back!"  he  moaned.  "I  would  to 
Heaven  that  1  could !  You  do  not  realize  what 
I  mean,  when  I  say  that  I  am  a  ruined  man.  It 
means  that  I,  Maurice  Carre,  Earl  of  Croombe, 
stand  before  you  penniless.  The  home  of  my 
ancestors — this  old  Abbey,  where  the  best  and 
bravest  of  my  race  have  lived  and  died — has 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  23 

gone  from  me.  My  income  is  mortgaged — I  have  sold 
the  Home  Farm — I  am  as  utterly  ruined  and  without  re- 
source as  a  pauper  within  the  work-house  gates.  Yet  I 
could  bear'  it  all  if  it  were  possible  to  repay  Wyndham 
Carre.  I  cannot  live,  lanthe,  to  hear  myself  called 
thief." 

She  had  grown  very  pale  as  she  listened. 

"No  man  can  say  that,  dear.  You  frighten  your- 
self with  a  shadow.  Wyndham  told  you  to  do  better 
with  his  money,  if  you  could." 

"And  I  have  lost  it.  lanthe,  what  answer  shall  I 
make  to  him  if  he  comes  to  me  and  says,  '  Where  is  my 
all,  the  fortune  I  left  in  your  hands  ?  '  ' 

"  Could  I  not  sell  my  jewels  ?  And  the  pictures — 
surely  they  would  be  worth  more  even  than  five  thousand 
pounds?  " 

"  The  jewels  are  not  worth  one-half  the  sum,  and  the 
pictures — do  you  not  understand,  lanthe  ? — the  house  as 
it  stands,  have  gone  from  me.  I  am  destitute,  penniless. 
Was  there  ever  a  sorrow  like  unto  mine  ?  " 

"And  this  is  Christmas,"  said  the  girl,  thoughtfully, 
"  when  every  one  is  supposed  to  be  so  happy?  Papa, 
what  shall  we  do?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell.  I  dare  not  think.  I  am  a  ruined  man. 
Do  you  realize  all  that  that  means  for  you,  lanthe — you, 
brought  up  in  the  midst  of  luxury,  accustomed  to  car- 
riages, horses,  servants,  to  dress  as  you  liked,  to  do  as 
you  liked  ?  What  will  become  of  you,  my  darling  ? 
When  we  two  walk  out  of  here  hand  in  hand,  there  will 
be  no  home  for  us  to  go  to ;  we  shall  not  have  one  shill- 


24  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

ing  in  the  wide  world.  Now  do  you  realize  what  ruin 
means? "  . 

She  grew  even  whiter,  and  looked  at  him  with  great 
startled  eyes. 

"  Are  matters  so  bad,  papa  ?  " 

He  tore  his  hands  from  her  grasp,  and,  with  a  pas- 
sionate cry,  fell  on  his  knees  before  her. 

"  Can  you  ever  forgive  me,  lanthe?  I  would  die  to 
win  your  pardon.  I  have  ruined  your  bright  young  life 
— you,  the  fairest,  the  brightest  of  my  race.  You  will 
have  to  work  for  your  daily  bread  ?  Can  you  ever  for- 
give me  ?  " 

She  bent  over  him  with  sweet,  patient  tenderness. 

"  Papa  do  not  speak  to  me  in  that  fashion.  You  have 
done  all  for  the  best.  I  should  have  nothing  to  forgive, 
even  if  you  had  done  the  deadliest  wrong.  I  am  your 
child — it  is  not  for  me  to  judge  you.  Let  me  help  you 
— comfort  you — but  do  not  ask  me  for  pardon.  I  am 
willing  to  suffer  with  you." 

"Yesterday,"  said  the  old  Earl,  in  his  trembling 
voice,  "  when  the  letter  came  to  tell  me  that  the  mine 
was  a  failure,  there  came  also  a  letter  from  John  Culross 
— that  is,  from  his  executors — he  himself — the  man  who 
lent  me  the  money — is  dead.  They  are  calling  in  all  the 
moneys  due  to  him ;  they  have  asked  for  the  ten  thou- 
sand pounds.  They  have  given  me  formal  notice  for  its 
repayment;  if  in  three  months  it  is  not  paid,  I  shall  lose 
Croombe  Abbey — it  will  pass  from  my  hands  into  theirs.'' 

"  Three  months,"  she  repeated — to  her  it  seemed  like 
a  reprieve.  "  Surely  mucn  can  be  done  in  three  months 
— you  can  borrow  the  money  from  someone  else,  papa?" 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  25 

"  Who  would  lend  ten  thousand  pounds  to  a  ruined 
man  ?  Of  course  I  shall  send  for  a  lawyer,  and  do  my 
best ;  but  I  know  it  will  be  useless.  Croombe  Abbey, 
the  home  of  the  Carres,  will  become  the  property  of  a 
manufacturer.  It  is  enough  to  make  the  dead  Carres 
rise  from  their  graves." 

Her  beautiful  face  flushed  hotly — her  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  "  there  is  one  thing  we  must  do  at 
once — we  must  tell  the  truth  to  Lord  Ravenscourt.  You 
think  he  is  here  because  he  admires  me  ;  he  must  know 
that  I  am  no  longer  a  rich  heiress.  We  shall  see  if  that 
makes  any  difference  to  him.  Then  we  must,  under 
some  pretext  or  other,  send  away  our  visitors.  How 
sorry  I  am  that  we  wasted  money  on  that  foolish  ball !  " 

"  You  were  happy,  my  darling — so  that  it  was  not  all 
waste,"  said  the  Earl.  "  Tell  me,  lanthe,  do  you  love 
Lord  Ravenscourt?" 

"  No,  papa ;  I  like  him — in  time  perhaps  I  might 
love  him." 

"  It  would  take  half  the  bitterness  away  if  I  could  see 
you  married,"  he  remarked  ;  "  it  is  for  you  I  dread  the 
change,  not  for  myself." 

"We  must  tell  him  to-morrow,  papa,"  said  Lady 
lanthe.  "  See,  it  is  striking  two,  and  you  look  so  tired, 
dear.  I  will  not  stay  to  listen  to  any  more ;  I  know  the 
worst.  We  will  bear  it  together — we  shall  always  be  to- 
gether ;  and  I  am  so  young,  so  strong,  so  brave,  I  can 
help  you  so  much.  Promise  me  you  will  try  to  sleep." 

He  looked  gratefully  at  her. 

"There  is  one  thing  more  lanthe.  The  letter  calling 
in  the  mortgage  is  from  the  son,  Herman  Culross,  and 


26  WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  4 

he  speaks  of  coming  over  to  see  me  about  it.     You  witt 
be  civil  to  him  for  my  sake,  if  he  comes,  lanthe?  " 

« <  Civil  ?  Certainly,  papa.  I  was  never  guilty  of  inci- 
vility to  an  inferior — I  consider  it  ill-breeding." 

"  He  is  heir  to  a  millionaire  now,  lanthe — hardly  an 
inferior." 

"If  he  had  the  wealth  of  the  whole  world,  papa," 
she  said,  haughtily,  "he  would  still  be  inferior  even  to  a 
ruined  and  penniless  Carre." 

The  old  Earl  looked  kindly  at  her  for  one  minute,  as 
she  stood  with  all  the  pride  of  her  race  expressed  in  her 
face. 

"  I  will  be  civil,  dear,  for  your  sake ;  but  I  must  not 
forget  that  he,  this  manufacturer's  son,  was  presumptuous 
once.  I  am  afraid  that  I  shall  be  prouder  even  in  my 
poverty  than  I  was  in  prosperity." 

All  the  haughtiness  died  away  as  she  bent  down  once 
more  to  kiss  him  and  say  good-night ;  and  then  she  went 
away,  leaving  him  alone. 

Lady  lanthe  went  back  to  her  room,  to  think  over 
what  she  had  heard.  Ruined,  penniless,  disgraced — she 
who  had  been  reputed  heiress  of  a  grand  old  house — she 
who  had  known  nothing  but  luxury  and  magnificence ! 
It  was  all  over ;  she  might  bid  farewell  to  the  pleasure 
and  gayeties  she  had  enjoyed.  There  were  no  more 
triumphs  for  her,  no  more  jewels,  no  marvels  of  costly 
dress,  no  crowds  of  admiring  suitors — it  was  all  ended. 
There  was  but  one  thing  for  her  to  do ;  and  that  was  to 
go  away  with  her  father  where  they  might  hide  them- 
selves from  the  gaze  of  all  whom  they  had  ever  known. 
That  was  all  that  remained  for  her ;  and  she  was  one  of 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  27 

the  fairest  girls  in  England — just  eighteen.  Still 
she  had  the  courage  of  the  Carres.  She  shed  no 
idle  tears,  she  made  no  complaint.  She  smiled 
bitterly  to  herself  as  she  thought  of  Lord  Ravens- 
court.  She  understood  now  her  father's  desire 
that  she  should  like  him. 

"I  may  be  thankful  that  I  did  not,"  she  thought 
— "that  his  sweet  words  and  compliments  have 
won  no  love  from  me ;  for,  unless  I  mistake — and 
mistake  greatly — when  he  understands  the  real 
state  of  things,  he  will  say  all  that  is  kind  by  way 
of  condolence,  and  then  ride  away." 

It  was  her  first  lesson  in  the  trying  realities  of 
life,  and,  considering  how  spoiled  and  indulged 
she  had  been,  it  was  a  terribly  hard  one. 

On  the  morrow  Lord  Carre  gave  some  slight 
intimation  of  the  state  of  affairs  to  his  noble  guest, 
who  was  most  profuse  in  his  expressions  of  sym- 
pathy. The  next  morning  he  announced  that 
business  would  call  him  away  at  once. 

As  she  watched  him  drive  off,  Lady  lanthe 
smiled  bitterly  to  herself. 

"Let  me  take  that  lesson  to  heart,"  she  said. 
4 '  If  yesterday  a  fortune  had  fallen  to  my  lot  instead 
of  the  loss  of  one,  Lord  Ravenscourt  would  have 
persuaded  himself,  and  me,  too,  perhaps,  that  he 
was  in  love  with  me.  He  would  have  made  me 
an  offer  of  marriage,  and  it  is  just  possible  that  I 
might  have  become  Lady  Ravenscourt.  Better 
poverty  than  that — better  any  fate  than  marriage 
with  a  man  who  wants  nobility  of  soul!" 

Did  the  words  eyer  come  home  to  her  when, 
years  afterward,  she  knew  what  a  noble  soul 
really  was? 


28  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

One  by  one  the  guests  departed,  and  Lord  Carre  was 
left  with  his  daughter. 

He  received  a  letter  one  morning,  saying  that  Mr. 
Culross  would  be  at  the  Abbey  at  night.  He  gave  it 
silently  into  his  daughter's  hands. 

"You  will  be  civil  to  him,  lanthe,  for  my  sake?  My 
whole  future,  such  as  it  is,  rests  in  this  man's  hands." 

"Certainly, "again promised  his  daughter.  "Why  should 
I  not,  papa?  The  young  man  will  surely  have  the  good 
sense  to  keep  his  place  this  time." 

"lanthe,"  said  Lord  Carre,  looking  at  his  daughter, 
"you  speak  somewhat  contemptuously  of  Mr.  Culross. 
But,  remember,  he  is  a  millionaire.  I  should  not  think 
there  are  many  wealthier  men  in  England;  and  money — 
ah,  lanthe,  money  does  much!" 

"It  has  never  made  a  gentleman — and  it  never  will,"  she 
said.  "It  cannot  buy  birth,  nobility,  or  talent.  I  do  not 
see  that  it  is  so  omnipotent,  papa." 

"What  would  I  not  give  for  it,  lanthe?"  he  sighed. 
"Money  would  save  one  of  the  oldest  names  in  Eng- 
land from  discredit  and  shame;  it  would  restore  that 
which  I  have  lost — my  self-respect,  my  self-esteem;  it 
would  give  me  courage  to  raise  my  head  once  more 
amongst  my  fellow-men;  it  would  take  from  me  the  brand 
of  shame.  Oh,  lanthe,  if  all  the  gifts  of  this  fair  earth 
were  laid  before  me  now,  I  should  choose — money!" 

"Poor  papa!"  said  the  girl,  quietly.  "You  may 
make  yourself  easy  on  one  point — I  will  be  civil  to  Mr. 
Culross.  Heaven  guide  us  safely  through  our  troubles!" 
And  so  saying,  she  left  him  to  prepare  for  the  coming 
guest. 


WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 


CHAPTER  in. 

"  TROUBLES  never  come  alone,"  said  Lord  Carre. 
"  See,  lanthe,  here  is  a  letter  from  Wyndham ;  he  will  be 
home  in  six  months,  and  he  asks  me  to  have  his  money 
ready,  as  he  knows  of  an  excellent  investment  for  it.  My 
dear  child,  can  I  write  and  tell  him  that  it  is  lost  ?  I  am 
in  despair." 

He  bowed  his  white  head,  and  she  had  no  words  with 
which  to  comfort  him;  this  brought  their  trouble  nearer 
to  her,  and  made  it  more  real  than  it  had  ever  seemed 
before.  He  raised  his  haggard  face  to  hers. 

"  It  will  kill  me,  lanthe,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  never 
live  to  meet  him." 

She  could  not  comfort  him.  She  had  love,  devotion, 
the  warmest,  truest  affection  to  offer  him,  but  no  money ; 
and  money  was  the  only  thing  that  could  help  him  then. 
She  stood  by  helpless,  while  the  father  she  loved  so 
dearly  humbled  himself  before  her  in  his  shame  and  dis- 
grace. 

Herman  Culross  was  expected  that  evening,  and  it  had 
touched  her  heart  with  keenest  pain  to  see  the  old  Earl 
with  trembling  hands  gathering  up  his  papers,  and  try- 
ing in  vain  to  give  matters  a  proper  business  aspect. 

"  He  may  be  a  kind-hearted  man,  after  all,  lanthe," 
he  observed,  "  and  anxious  to  spare  me."     And  then  he 
broke  into  a  passion  of  child-like  tears,  crying,  "  I  can- 
not leave  Croombe.     I  cannot  see  Croombe  pass  into  his 
3 


30  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

hands.     I   would   rather  burn  it  down,  and  die  in  the 
ashes." 

His  daughter  shared  his  passion  of  grief;  rather  than 
leave  Croombe,  rather  than  see  it  pass  into  the  hands  of 
this  parvenu,  she  would  have  set  fire  to  it.  But  she  was 
young  and  hopeful.  She  was  only  eighteen,  and  she 
could  not  quite  believe  in  this  crushing  weight  of  sorrow. 
Some  way  out  of  it  would  be  found.  Yet  she  owned  to 
herself  that  she  did  not  know  of  one. 

She  had  promised  to  be  civil  to  the  man  who  held 
their  future  in  his  hands.  The  lawyer,  Mr.  Grantley, 
was  coming  at  the  same  time,  and  she  had  ordered  din- 
ner to  be  ready  at  seven,  wondering,  as  she  did  so,  how 
many  more  dinners  she  would  order  at  Croombe— won- 
dering what  she  would  do  without  servants— she  whose 
least  wish  had  ever  been  obeyed. 

She  dressed  herself  with  exquisite  taste,  not  to  at- 
tract the  attention  or  excite  the  admiration  of  Mr.  Cul- 
ross— she  was  incapable  of  such  an  idea— but  to  please  her 
father,  the  Earl ;  and  never  had  the  proud  Lady  lanthe 
looked  more  lovely.  She  wore  a  simple  evening  dress 
of  white  silk  trimmed  with  green  leaves,  and  a  suite  of 
opals,  the  changeful  light  of  which  suited  well  her  bright 
regal  beauty.  The  masses  of  brown  rippling  hair  formed 
a  coronet  to  the  beautiful  face.  She  was  imperially  fair. 
She  smiled  when  she  thought  of  presumptuous  Her- 
man Culross,  the  plebeian,  the  millionaire,  for  in  the 
iays  of  his  early  youth  he  had  dared  to  raise  his  eyes  to 

-had  dared  to  worship  her  as  some  bright,  far-off 
star—what  was  worse,  had  dared  to  give  that  worship 
voice. 


WEDDED  AND  PASTED.  31 

It  had  happened  in  this  way.  As  a  boy,  while  the 
terms  of  the  mortgage  were  being  negotiated,  he  had 
been  taken  to  Croombe  Abbey  ;  and  there,  walking  with 
her  governess  in  the  park,  he  had  seen  Lady  lanthe — 
seen  what  he  thought  was  the  fairest  vision  on  earth. 
Boy  as  he  was,  he  had  become  almost  insane  about  her. 
She  had  glanced  at  him  only  once ;  she  had  looked  at 
him  with  those  calm,  serene  eyes  that  took  so  little  in- 
terest in  anything — looked  at  him,  wondering  who  he 
was,  and  why  he  was  there. 

"  He  is  a  plebeian,"  she  had  said  to  herself,  and  had 
passed  on  scornfully. 

He  was  only  a  boy,  but  that  one  glance  had  set  his 
heart  on  fire.  He  asked  her  name,  and  had  lingered  in 
the  park,  hoping  to  see  her  again,  and  had  failed.  He 
had  gone  home  haunted  by  her,  dreaming  of  her,  mad 
about  her ;  and,  when  he  could  bear  his  dreams  no 
longer,  he  had  poured  out  his  boyish,  .passionate  love  in 
verse — verse  that  would  have  brought  tears  to  kindly 
eyes,  it  was  so  full  of  love  and  longing. 

After  many  days  he  sent  it  addressed  to  the  Lady 
lanthe  Carre,  and  signed  with  his  name.  She  was  quite 
a  child  at  the  time,  even  as  he  was  a  fair- faced  boy,  but 
her  anger  was  terrible.  A  manufacturer's  son,  a  boy 
lowly  born,  a  plebeian,  to  dare  to  send  love-verses  to 
her  !  Lady  lanthe  simply  tore  the  closely-written  pages 
in  two,  and  returned  them. 

That  was  years  before — but  Lady  lanthe  had  never 
forgiven  the  insult,  and  Herman  Culross  had  never  for- 
gotten his  love.  Through  the  years  of  his  boyhood  and 
his  youth  he  had  remembered  her  ;  he  had  thought  of 


82  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

her  as  the  fairest  girl  in  the  world — as  his  ideal  of  per- 
fect loveliness.  He  had  said  to  himself  over  and  over 
again  that  he  would  rather  a  hundred  times  love  her 
memory  than  be  loved  by  any  living  woman.  He  hoped 
to  have  done  something  worthy  of  a  name  when  he  should 
meet  Lady  lanthe  Carre  again. 

He  was  too  young  at  the  time  to  understand  anything 
about  business,  and  when  he  grew  older  he  spent  much 
time  abroad,  so  that  he  did  not  understand  his  father's 
affairs.  When,  at  his  father's  death,  the  will  was  read, 
and  he  found  himself  a  millionaire,  his  surprise  was 
great ;  it  was  greater  still  when  he  found  that  his  father's 
chief  creditor  was  the  Earl  of  Carre,  who  owed  him  ten 
thousand  pounds.  If  he  could  have  consulted  his  own 
wish,  he  would  have  let  the  money  remain,  but  it  was  not 
in  his  power  to  do  so.  By  the  terms  of  the  will  the 
business  was  to  be  sold  ;  all  moneys  lent  on  mortgages 
or  invested  in  shares  were  to  be  called  in ;  and  the  whole 
of  the  vast  capital  was  to  be  safely  invested  according  to 

directions. 

( 

The  testator,  John  Culross,  wished  his  son  to  become 
a  country  gentleman — to  enter  Parliament — to  found  a 
family;  and  it  was  discovered  that  Herman  would  in- 
herit not  less  than  a  million  of  money.  The  story  of  his 
wealth  spread  until  it  was  known  all  over  England.  He 
had  asked  if  he  was  compelled  to  call  in  the  ten  thou- 
sand pounds.  His  solicitors  said  "  Yes" — he  was  com- 
pelled to  call  it  in,  although  he  could  lend  it  again  the 
day  after  if  he  chose. 

Would  he  so  choose  ?    His  heart  beat,  his  face  flushed 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  33 

hotly — he  was  to  see  her  again,  and  this  time  she  would 
not  be  able  to  dismiss  him  with  contempt. 

He  knew  nothing  of  the  Earl's  misfortunes,  and  he 
did  not  anticipate  any  difficulty  in  getting  his  money. 
It  was  something  of  a  surprise  to  him  when  he  received 
a  letter  from  Lord  Carre  asking  if  it  would  not  be  pos- 
sible to  make  any  other  arrangements,  as  he  had  a  diffi- 
culty in  finding  the  money.  Then  Herman  wrote,  offer- 
ing to  go  over  to  Croombe ;  but  that  offer  was  really 
dictated  by  his  longing  desire  to  see  Lady  lanthe,  not  to 
arrange  about  the  money — he  would  have  given  it  all 
for  one  kind  glance  from  the  beautiful  eyes  that  ever 
haunted  him. 

He  had  heard  much  of  Lady  lanthe  during  the  last 
two  years ;  he  knew  that  she  had  been  one  of  the  lead- 
ing beauties  of  the  London  season.  He  smiled,  too, 
when  he  heard  that  she  was  called  one  of  the  proudest 
girls  in  England.  He  could  well  believe  it,  remember- 
ing the  fate  of  the  verses  in  which  he  had  told  the  love 
of  his  warm  boyish  heart.  He  heard,  too,  that  she  was 
strangely  contemptuous  about  love  and  lovers — that  some 
of  the  noblest  in  the  land  had  sued  in  vain  for  a  smile 
from  her  proud  lips — but  that,  while  she  was  proud  and 
haughty  to  all  the  world,  to  her  father  she  was  most  lov- 
ing and  devoted. 

He  had  smiled  again,  saying  to  himself  that  a  girl 
who  could  love  and  honor  her  father  as  Lady  lanthe  did 
must  have  noble  qualities,  although  perhaps  the  world 
did  not  know  them. 

Was  she  one  of  the  proudest  girls  in  England  while 
she  stood  by  the  drawing-room  fire,  her  dress  slightly 

3 


34  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

raised,  her  tiny  silk  slipper  resting  on  the  bright  fender? 
She  had  strikingly  aristocratic  grace  of  figure  ;    h< 
every  movement,   every  action,  was  dignified  and  har- 
monious.    Her  head  was  thrown  back  with  a  proud, 
graceful  gesture  peculiar  to  herself;   her  white  arms 
were  idly  crossed,  for  she  was  thinking  deeply, 
hands  were  perfect  in  shape  and  color;  her  face  was 
patrician.     There  was  a  splendid  light  in  the  beautiful 
eyes-a  proud  light  that  yet  could  soften  into  tendernes: 

unutterable. 

Was  she  one  of  the  proudest  girls  in  England  ? 
was  clearly  expressed  in  the  patrician  face,  in  the  bright 
eyes,  and  the  pose  of  the  whole  figure.     But  there  are 
different  kinds  of  pride.     She  was  not  vain  ;  she  would 
never  have  dreamed  of  exalting  herself,  of  glorifying 
herself,  because  of  her  own  perfections.     She  was  not 
vain  of  her  face— its  marvelous  beauty  was  no  sourc 
pride;  and  money  would  never  have  made  her  proud. 
She  looked  upon  wealth  as  an  accident. 

Her  pride  lay  in  the  undue  importance  she  ascnb 
to  high  birth.     To  be  nobly  born  was  everything.     She 
did  not  consider  nobility  an  accident ;  in  her  own  mm. 
the  aristocracy  were  a  privileged  race,  set  aside  for  and 
by  a  nobility  of  soul  to  which  no  plebeian  could  ever 
attain.     They  were  set  aside  from  more  common  n  en, 
not  because  of  wealth,  but  because  high  birth,  length  o 
pedigree,  nobility  of  race,  entitled  them  to  peculiar 
honors.     The  doctrine  that  all  men  were  equal  made 
Lady  lanthe  shudder.     Perhaps  her  views  might  hav( 
been  a  little  more  just  if  she  had  been  trained  by  a  « 
sible  mother;  but  her  mother  had  died  while  she  was 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  35 

still  young,  and,  although  she  had  had  tutors  and  gov- 
ernesses, she  had  been  much  alone. 

Was  this  pride  of  Lady  lanthe's  all  evil  ?  If  good 
could  come  from  an  evil  source,  good  came  from  that. 
She  would  have  scorned  the  idea  of  disgracing  or  stain- 
ing the  noble  name  she  bore.  She  would  not  have  told 
a  lie — have  uttered  a  false  word — to  save  her  life.  She 
would  have  declared,  with  superb  pride,  that  the  Carres 
were  always  true.  She  had  the  fire  and  chivalry,  the 
true  bravery  of  her  race ;  she  never  indulged  in  vulgar 
weaknesses,  such  as  gossip  and  scandal.  She  invariably 
defended  the  absent ;  she  shielded  the  weak.  She  took 
the  part  of-  the  feeble  against  the  strong.  She,  one  of 
the  proudest  girls  in  England,  was  kind  and  gentle  to 
the  poor ;  she  was  munificently  generous  to  them.  She 
was  courteously  kind  to  her  inferiors — she  had  never  ad- 
dressed a  proud  or  scornful  word  to  a  servant  or  an  in- 
ferior in  her  life.  And  why  ?  Because  truth,  chivalry, 
courtesy,  generosity,  were  to  her  the  marks  of  high 
birth — because  the  absence  of  those  virtues  denoted  a 
plebeian  soul.  She — lanthe  Carre — could  never,  would 
never,  do  anything  unworthy  of  her  name.  She  did 
not  deny  to  the  plebeian,  the  lowly  born,  the  poor,  the 
possession  of  virtues ;  but  then,  to  her  mind,  they  were 
of  a  different  kind.  She  understood  that  a  poor  man 
must  be  patient,  a  tradesman  honest — patience  and  hon- 
esty, industry  and  activity,  belonged  to  their  order.  She 
could  not  understand  that  a  poor  man  might  be  a  hero — 
the  idea  of  a  chivalrous  tradesman  was  beyond  her. 
She  disliked  the  idea  of  mixing  the  two  orders.  She 
could  not  pardon  the  marriage  of  an  aristocrat  with  a 


36  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

plebeian — to  her  the  two  were  far  apart ;  and  it  was  not 
exactly  a  vulgar  love  of  rank  that  possessed  her — it  was 
an  inborn,  sincere  conviction  that  she  belonged  to  a  race 
set  apart.  Why  they  should  be  so  set  apart  she  did  not 
know ;  it  was  one  of  those  decrees  of  Providence  better 
understood  than  explained. 

Pride  of  birth,  pride  of  race,  was  the  girl's  besetting 
sin ;  but,  in  her  eyes,  it  had  assumed  the  guise  of  virtue. 
She  was  brilliantly  accomplished,  yet  of  her  accomplish- 
ments she  was  never  vain.  Naturally  quick  and  gifted, 
she  had  studied  hard.  She  had  traveled  with  Lord 
Carre.  She  had  read  and  studied  and  thought;  yet, 
though  she  was  endowed  with  keen  perception,  she  had 
never  arrived  at  the  knowledge  of  her  own  besetting 
sin. 

She  was  a  girl  of  singular  purity  of  mind — her  innate 
sense  of  refinement  served  as  a  virtue.  She  would  never 
have  been  guilty  of  flirtation.  She  would  never  have 
attempted  to  attract  admiration.  She  never  courted  the 
smiles  and  compliments  of  men ;  nor,  as  yet,  had  she 
thought  much  of  men  or  lovers.  Her  whole  heart  was 
given  to  her  father. 

Suddenly  she  started  from  her  listless  attitude.  There 
was  a  sound  of  carriage-wheels.  She  knew  that  he  had 
arrived— this  millionaire — this  plebeian,  who  held  the 
name  and  fortunes  of  the  Carres  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hands.  She  did  not  move  away,  but  the  expression  of 
deep  thought  passed  from  her  face  and  gave  place  to  one 
of  attention. 

After  some  minutes,  two  gentlemen  entered  the  room 
— one  old  and  gray-haired,  whom  she  recognized  as  her 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  37 

father's  solicitor,  Mr.  Grantley ;  the  other,  yotmg,  tall, 
with  a  face  full  of  energy,  who  was  announced  as  Mr. 
Culross.  She  made  one  step  forward,  and  held  out  her 
white  jeweled  hand  in  stately  greeting  to  her  father's 
old  friend,  and  then  bowed  with  courtly  grace  to  Her- 
man Culross.  She  would  just  as  soon  have  thought  of 
cutting  her  hand  off  as  of  giving  it  to  him,  and  he  no- 
ticed the  omission. 

He  was  very  pleasant  to  see,  this  son  of  the  people — 
this  son  of  a  man  who  had  worked  hard  for  his  daily 
bread.  He  was  tall,  with  a  well-knit,  manly  figure, 
broad  shoulders  and  broad  chest,  strong  arms  and  strong 
though  white  hands — the  kind  of  man  one  would  like 
by  one's  side  in  a  fray — the  kind  of  man  in  whose  arms 
one  would  place  one's  best  loved  child. 

There  was  something  of  dignity  too  in  the  tall,  erect 
figure — the  dignity  of  independence.  The  face  was  in 
many  respects  a  lovable  one — not  handsome,  but  more 
than  pleasant  to  see.  The  eyes  were  large,  dark,  and 
frank;  they  were  lighted  with  a  pleasant,  luminous 
smile;  they  were  eloquent  too — full  of  fire  and  passion. 
The  mouth  was  firm  in  repose:  the  well-shaped  lips 
closed  with  a  line  that  was  almost  stern,  yet,  when  he 
smiled,  the  smile  was  sweet  and  tender  as  a  woman's. 
It  was  an  earnest,  sensitive  face ;  it  was  a  face  men 
trusted  implicitly,  women  liked,  and  children  loved. 

Lady  Janthe's  calm  proud  eyes  glanced  carelessly  at 
it.  As  his  glance  met  hers,  a  sudden  fire  of  passion 
seemed  to  burn  in  his  face,  his  lips  trembled,  the  strong 
earnest  man  was  hardly  master  of  himself.  The  proud, 
calm  glance  had  set  his  heart  on  fire  again. 


38  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

How  he  loved  her — this  fair,  imperial  girl,  who  had 
coolly  set  him  down  as  not  of  her  world,  and  treated 
him  with  scant  courtesy  because  he  was  her  inferior! 
He  could  have  knelt  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her  dress — 
he  could  have  cried  aloud  to  her  that  she  was  fair,  and 
that  he  had  loved  her  madly  for  long  years.  He  had  in 
his  own  mind  rehearsed  this  little  interview  many  times. 
He  had  intended  to  say,  with  a  very  lordly  air,  that  he 
wished  to  apologize  for  Ms  boyish  impertinence  of  years 
ago;  but,  looking  at  her,  he  dared  not  do  it — the  fair, 
queenly  face  had  no  gleam  of  recognition  in  it.  Be- 
sides, his  manhood  rose  in  hot  rebellion ;  he  would  not 
apologize — he  would  not  call  that  boyish,  earnest,  pas- 
sionate love  an  impertinence.  Did  she  remember  it? 
He  must  know :  it  might  pain  him  to  discover  that  she 
still  resented  the  love- verses — it  might  pain  him  to  find 
that  she  had  forgotten  them— but  anything  was  better 
than  indifference. 

After  a  time  the  Eari  came  in,  and  he  shook  hands 
warmly  with  both  gentlemen.  There  was  something  of 
trepidation  in  his  manner  as  he  spoke  to  Herman  Cul- 
ross — a  shadow  of  dread  which  his  daughter  observed 
with  surprise.  The  dinner  was  announced,  and  they 
went  to  the  dming-rpom. 

Lady  lanthe  adhered  most  strictly  to  the  letter  of  her 
word.  She  was  "  civil "  to  Mr.  Cukoss— nothing  more. 
If,  from  any  need  or  obligation,  her  father  had  invited 
one  of  the  neighboring  tradesmen  to  dine,  she  would 
have  been  just  as  civil.  With  a  courteous  smile  she 
acknowledged  every  Eeiaa^-k  Heajman,  Gub*o$s  addressed 
to  her — yet  that  very  smile  seemed  t«  widen  the  distance 


WEDDED  AND  PASTED.  39 

between  them.  She  never  voluntarily  addressed  him, 
except  when  her  position  as  hostess  obliged  her.  She 
did  not  neglect  one  trivial  act  of  courtesy,  yet,  when 
they  rose  from  dinner,  Herman  felt  as  though  a  frozen 
ocean  lay  between  them.  He  would  bridge  it  over,  he 
said  to  himself,  let  it  be  as  deep  and  cold  and  hardly 
frozen  as  it  might. 

Then,  after  dinner,  the  Earl  and  his  solicitor  had  a 
game  at  ecarte.  Lord  Carre  would  not  broach  business 
that  evening.  He  had  asked  Mr.  Culross  if  he  played  at 
chess,  adding  that,  if  he  did  so,  he  would  find  an  able  op- 
ponent in  Lady  lanthe.  Herman  was  only  too  delighted 
to  draw  the  little  chess-table  near  the  fire ;  he  placed  an 
easy-chair  and  footstool  for  her.  She  thanked  him  with 
courteous  gravity,  and  they  sat  down  together. 

They  had  played  for  an  hour,  and  after  that  Herman 
said  to  himself  that  he  must  know  whether  she  remem- 
bered his  boyish  love.  He  looked  at  her ;  the  fair,  high- 
bred face  was  bent  over  the  board,  her  white  hands 
lightly  touched  the  chessmen,  there  was  no  indication  of 
the  faintest  consciousness  of  his  presence.  Suddenly  he 
took  courage. 

"Lady  lanthe,"  he  said,  "  I  trust  by  this  time  you 
have  forgiven  my  boyish  indiscretion." 

The  proud,  serene  eyes  looked  indifferently  at  him. 

"  It  would  be  ungenerous  to  remember  the  faults  of  the 
boy  against  the  man,"  she  said,  calmly.  "  I  have  for- 
given it." 

The  reply  silenced  Herman  for  a  time.  Then  she  had 
considered  his  love  a  fault — a  fault,  that  impetuous,  hon- 


40  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

est  worship  which  he  had  lavished  on  her  !  It  was  rather 
hard.  He  recovered  himself  after  awhile. 

"  You  must  have  thought  me  very  presumptuous,"  he 
said. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  it  is  your  move,  not  mine.  Pre- 
sumptuous ?  No,  I  did  not  think  of  you  at  all." 

Again  Herman  sank  back  silenced.  She  had  not  even 
found  it  worth  while  to  be  angry.  She  had  simply  ig- 
nored him.  He  would  not  be  daunted. 

"  It  was  a  terrible  blow  to  my  vanity,"  he  continued, 
rashly.  "  I  thought  my  poor  verses  very  fair." 

"  Did  you?  Your  queen  is  in  danger,  Mr.  Culross." 
The  calm  pride  of  her  perfect  repose  was  not  to  be  dis- 
turbed. 

"  If  I  were  a  wise  man,"  thought  Herman,  "  I  should 
say  no  more ;  but  1  am  not  wise,  and  I  know  I  shall  com- 
mit myself.  If  she  would  but  look  at  me — even  if  angrily 
— I  should  not  care." 

But  he  found  himself  suddenly  checkmated,  and  the 
game  ended  ;  and  then  Lady  lanthe  rose,  and  said  "Good 
evening."  She  went  to  her  room,  quite  pleased  with  her- 
self and  her  own  efforts.  She  had  been  very  civil  to  her 
father's  guest. 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  41 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LADY  IANTHE  looked  from  her  window  on  the  morn- 
ing after  the  arrival  of  the  two  gentlemen.  The  heavy 
clouds  had  parted  during  the  night,  and  the  snow  had 
fallen ;  it  lay  like  a  white,  thick,  soft  mantle  over  the 
earth.  The  sky  above  was  darkly  blue,  and  the  wintry 
rays  of  the  sun  shone  like  palest  gold.  Far  and  wide  was 
the  snow.  The  fields  were  all  covered,  the  hedges  were 
white,  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees  were  fringed.  The 
green  holly  held  soft  white  snow  in  the  hollow  of  its 
leaves.  The  scarlet  berries  gleamed  out  like  points  of 
flame ;  the  robin-redbreast  hopped  on  the  white  snow 
and  the  bare  twigs.  It  was  a  winter  scene  so  full  of 
poetry  that  Lady  lanthe  could  have  watched  it  for  hours ; 
but  she  drew  back  with  a  sudden  start  of  pain.  Not 
much  longer  would  she  watch  those  grand  old  trees,  the 
growth  of  centuries;  not  much  longer  would  the  magnifi- 
cent old  home  be  hers.  Where  the  Carres  had  lived  and 
died  the  plebeian  race  of  Culross  would  take  up  their 
abode.  The  girl  clasped  her  hands  in  passionate  sorrow 
as  she  thought  of  it.  She  would  have  given  her  life  to 
save  her  home  from  such  terrible  desecration.  They 
would  be  sure  to  cut  down  the  old  ancestral  oaks,  just  as 
they  would  have  new  gilding  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
modern  pictures  in  place  of  old  family  portraits.  Then 
she  remembered  that  she  had  to  go  down  and  be  civil  to 
him,  the  representative  of  the  race  that  she  detested. 


42  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

If  Herman  had  thought  Lady  lanthe  beautiful  in  her 
evening  dress,  he  was  at  a  loss  what  to  think  of  her  in 
plain  morning  toilet — a  simple  morning  dress  of  dark  rich 
blue;  fastened  high,  and  closed  round  the  white  throat, 
showing  every  line  and  curve  of  the  graceful  figure.  The 
|jair,  pure,  proud  face  bloomed  with  health ;  the  rich  rip- 
pling brown  hair  was  loosely  and  gracefully  arranged.  She 
bade  him  "Good-morning, ' '  not  offering  her  hand, and  just 
raising  her  white  eyelids,  and  then  took  her  seat  to  pre- 
side at  the  breakfast-table.  But  her  presence  made  para- 
dise for  the  man  who  worshiped  her  with  such  passionate 
love. 

After  breakfast  the  Earl  sent  for  her.  He  looked,  she 
fancied,  a  little  more  cheerful. 

"lanthe,"  he  said,  "I  have  sent  for  you  because  I 
want  particularly  to  see  you.  Last  night,  after  you  had 
left  us,  we  had  a  long  talk  about  my — misfortunes.  He 
was  so  kind  to  me — this  young  Herman  Culross;  he 
could  not  have  been  kinder  had  he  been  my  own  son." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  she  observed,  calmly ;  the  idea  of 
being  "kind"  to  her  father,  Lord  Carre,  hardly  pleased 
her.  Kindness  implied  something  of  patronage,  and  be- 
tween peer  and  parvenu  such  a  thing  was  of  course  ab- 
surd. 

"He  took  so  great  an  interest  in  what  I  said,"  con- 
tinued Lord  Carre,  "  that  I  confided  in  him  entirely.  I 
told  him  everything — of  the  ten  thousand  pounds  owing 
to  him — of  the  five  owing  to  Wyndham — and  of  the  two 
hundred  thousand  borrowed  for  that  detestable  silver 
mine." 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  43 

"  Did  you  tell  him  all,  papa?  You  must  have  trusted 
him  greatly." 

"  I  did — I  do.  My  heart  was  drawn  to  him.  He  is 
earnest,  frank,  sincere.  I  like  him  so  much,  lanthe." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  she  said,  "  that  you  have  found  a 
friend  in  your  troubles,  papa.  Do  they — these  gentle- 
men— see  any  way  out  of  them  ? ' ' 

11  No;  they  both  averred  that  it  was  black,  bitter,  ir- 
retrievable ruin — that  there  was  no  possible  escape  from 
it;  but  they  have  promised  in  every  way  to  do  their 
best.  Mr.  Grantley  is  compelled  to  return  to  London 
this  evening ;  but.  I  have  asked  Herman  Culross  to  re- 
main with  us  for  the  next  fortnight,  at  least.  He  has 
promised  to  do  so.  You  will  be  civil  to  him,  lanthe?  " 

"  Civil,"  she-  repeated,  impatiently — "  I  am  always 
civil  to  him,  papa." 

"  You  will  try  and  amuse  him,  and  make  the  time  pass 
pleasantly  to  him  ?  " 

"  Certainly;  I  hope,  papa,  that  you  are  always  satisfied 
with  my  condnct  toward  your  guests." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  wistfully ;  "  but  there  is  a  shadow 
if  something  in  your  manner  toward  Mr.  Culross — noth- 
ing tangible — a  shadow — yet  I  can  feel  it.  It  is  as  though 
you  never  for  one  moment  forgot  the  difference  in  your 
positions." 

"  There  is  a  difference,  papa,"  she  said — "  you  admit 
that?" 

"  Certainly,  lanthe.  He  is  the  son  of  a  manufacturer, 
a  man  risen  entirely  from  the  ranks  of  the  people ;  you 
are  a  daughter  of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  England." 

"Then,  if  a  difference  exists,  papa,  it  should  be  ob- 


42  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

If  Herman  had  thought  Lady  lanthe  beautiful  in  her 
evening  dress,  he  was  at  a  loss  what  to  think  of  her  in 
plain  morning  toilet — a  simple  morning  dress  of  dark  rich 
blue;  fastened  high,  and  closed  round  the  white  throat, 
showing  every  line  and  curve  of  the  graceful  figure.  The 
jair,  pure,  proud  face  bloomed  with  health  j  the  rich  rip- 
pling brown  hair  was  loosely  and  gracefully  arranged.  She 
bade  him  "Good-morning,"  not  offering  her  hand,and  just 
raising  her  white  eyelids,  and  then  took  her  seat  to  pre- 
side at  the  breakfast-table.  But  her  presence  made  para- 
dise for  the  man  who  worshiped  her  with  such  passionate 
love. 

After  breakfast  the  Earl  sent  for  her.  He  looked,  she 
fancied,  a  little  more  cheerful. 

"lanthe,"  he  said,  "I  have  sent  for  you  because  I 
want  particularly  to  see  you.  Last  night,  after  you  had 
left  us,  we  had  a  long  talk  about  my — misfortunes.  He 
was  so  kind  to  me — this  young  Herman  Culross;  he 
could  not  have  been  kinder  had  he  been  my  own  son." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  she  observed,  calmly ;  the  idea  of 
being  "kind"  to  her  father,  Lord  Carre,  hardly  pleased 
her.  Kindness  implied  something  of  patronage,  and  be- 
tween peer  and  parvenu  such  a  thing  was  of  course  ab- 
surd. 

"He  took  so  great  an  interest  in  what  I  said,"  con- 
tinued Lord  Carre,  "  that  I  confided  in  him  entirely.  I 
told  him  everything — of  the  ten  thousand  pounds  owing 
to  him — of  the  five  owing  to  Wyndham — and  of  the  two 
hundred  thousand  borrowed  for  that  detestable  silver 
mine." 


WEDDED  AND  PASTED.  43 

"  Did  you  tell  him  all,  papa?  You  must  have  trusted 
him  greatly." 

"  I  did — I  do.  My  heart  was  drawn  to  him.  He  is 
earnest,  frank,  sincere.  I  like  him  so  much,  lanthe." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  she  said,  "  that  you  have  found  a 
friend  in  your  troubles,  papa.  Do  they — these  gentle- 
men— see  any  way  out  of  them  ? ' ' 

"No;  they  both  averred  that  it  was  black,  bitter,  ir- 
retrievable ruin — that  there  was  no  possible  escape  from 
it;  but  they  have  promised  in  every  way  to  do  their 
best.  Mr.  Grantley  is  compelled  to  return  to  London 
this  evening ;  but  I  have  asked  Herman  Culross  to  re- 
main with  us  for  the  next  fortnight,  at  least.  He  has 
promised  to  do  so.  You  will  be  civil  to  him,  lanthe?  " 

"Civil,"  she- repeated,  impatiently — "I  am  always 
civil  to  him,  papa." 

"  You  will  try  and  amuse  him,  and  make  the  time  pass 
pleasantly  to  him  ?  *' 

"  Certainly;  I  hope,  papa,  that  you  are  always  satisfied 
with  my  conduct  toward  your  guests." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  wistfully;  "but  there  is  a  shadow 
if  something  in  your  manner  toward  Mr.  Culross — noth- 
ing tangible — a  shadow — yet  I  can  feel  it.  It  is  as  though 
you  never  for  one  moment  forgot  the  difference  in  your 
positions." 

"  There  is  a  difference,  papa,"  she  said — "  you  admit 
that?" 

"  Certainly,  lanthe.  He  is  the  son  of  a  manufacturer, 
a  man  risen  entirely  from  the  ranks  of  the  people ;  you 
are  a  daughter  of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  England." 

"  Then,  if  a  difference  exists,  papa,  it  should  be  ob- 


46  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

complaint— Herman  could  not  even  to  himself  accuse 
her  •  but  he  would  rather  have  fought  with  a  dozen  re- 
alities than  this  intangible  shadow.  If  she  had  disliked 
him,  he  would  have  fought  the  dislike  inch  by  inch  ;  i 
she  had  hated  him,  he  would  have  overcome  the  hatred. 
She  simply  overlooked  him— and  what  could  he  do  ? 

One  week  of  the  time  had  elapsed;  and  then  it 
occurred  to  Lady  lanthe  that  he  was  taking  great  inter- 
est in  her.  His  devotion  to  the  Earl  knew  no  bounds. 
He  would  sit  up  until  the  early  hours  of  morning  trying 
to  unravel  the  tangled  web  of  accounts;  he  would  wait 
upon  the  old  Earl  with  a  gentleness  and  tenderness  that 
knew  no  bounds— the  tenderness  of  a  woman,  the  devo- 
tion of  a  son.  Lord  Carre  began  to  lean  upon  him,  to 
look  up  to  him ;  it  was  touching  to  see  them  together- 
the  winning  gentleness  and  deference  of  the  young  man, 
the  dependence  of  the  old  one. 

After  a  time  Lady  lanthe  began  to  wonder  at  it— s 
herself  was  not  more  devoted  to  the  Earl.  And  then 
she  noticed  how  often,  in  looking  up,  she  found  his  eyes 
fixed  on  her,  how  he  sought  every  opportunity  of  being 
with  her,  how  his  face  flushed  and  his  hands  trembled 
if  by  accident  she  came  near  him.  Almost  insensibly, 
for  her  father's  sake,  she  began  to  trust  him,  to  feel  con- 
fidence in  him,  although  she  never  for  one  moment  for- 
got the  barrier. 

He  said  but  little  to  her ;  he  never  ventured  on  any 
compliments;  he  refrained  even  from  little  polite 
speeches  that  he  might  easily  have  made  ;  and  she  was 
grateful  to  him  for  the  forbearance.  There  was  not  so 
much  effort  required  to  keep  him  in  his  place— he  did 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  47 

not  seem  disposed  to  take  advantage  of  his  position,  and 
insensibly  she  relaxed  from  her  vigilance. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  her  father  tried  to  throw  them 
together,  that  he  sought  opportunities  of  bringing  her 
more  and  more  into  the  society  of  Mr.  Culross.  He 
liked  to  walk  up  and  down  the  picture-gallery  between 
them ;  and,  when  Lady  Ian  the  deigned  to  listen,  she 
found  that  Herman  Culross's  conversation  was  superior 
to  any  she  had  ever  heard.  He  had  clear,  sound  views 
on  most  subjects ;  he  was  a  keen,  clever  judge  of  art,  a 
good  critic  ;  he  had  a  store  of  anecdotes,  a  fund  of  in- 
formation ;  he  was  a  scholar  and  a  student.  She  was 
compelled  to  own  that  for  the  son  of  a  manufacturer  he 
was  really  wonderful. 

He  had  his  own  ideas  of  chivalry  too ;  evidently  he 
did  not  consider  it  a  virtue  set  apart  for  the  aristocracy. 
She  was  even  surprised  and  horrified  to  find  that  he 
dared  to  discharge  little  arrows,  biting  little  sarcasms,  at 
the  order  she  loved  and  believed  in.  Could  it  be 
credited  ?  More  than  once  she  heard  him  laugh  at  the 
idea  of  hereditary  genius  ! 

One  evening  he  was  with  Lord  Carre  in  the  library, 
and  their  conversation  was  so  deeply  interesting  that 
they  had  never  even  heard  the  dinner  bell  ring.  On 
that  day  her  father  had  been  looking  unusually  ill,  and 
she  had  been  dreadfully  anxious  about  him. 

"  What  can  engross  them  so  entirely?  "  thought  Lady 
lanthe  to  herself;  and  then,  when  they  came  hurriedly 
into  the  dining-room  it  struck  her  that  they  both  avoided 
looking  at  her — that  Lord  Carre  had  a  wistful,  haggard 
expression  on  his  face — that  he  was  restless  and  excited. 


48  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

There  was  something,  too,  almost  apologetic  in  his  man- 
ner to  her ;  while  Herman  Culross  looked  eagerly  ex- 
pectant. 

"  lanthe,"  said  the  Earl,  after  dinner,  "  will  you  join 
me  in  a  few  minutes  ?  I  am  going  to  the  library." 

As  she  replied,  she  saw  Herman  Culross  look  at  her, 
with  a  sudden  gleam  of  light  in  his  eyes.  When  they 
were  alone,  he  crossed  the  room,  and  went  over  to  her 
side — he  was  strongly  agitated.  She  was  serenely  proud 
and  calm. 

"  Lady  lanthe,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  wish 
that  I  dare  kneel  here  at  your  feet,  and  pray  you  to  listen 
favorably  to  what  Lord  Carre  has  to  propose." 

She  raised  her  serene  eyes  to  his  earnest,  handsome 
face. 

"  You  would  be  greatly  out  of  place,  Mr.  Culross,  at 
my  feet,"  she  rejoined  ;  "  and — pray  pardon  me — it  re- 
quires no  prayers  from  you  to  induce  me  to  listen  favor- 
ably to  anything  my  dear  and  honored  father  may  have 
to  say." 

"  But,  Lady  lanthe,  you  do  not  know — allow  me 

She  moved  aside,  with  dignified  ease ;  there  was  the 
least  suspicion  of  contempt  in  the  smile  with  which  she 
interrupted  him. 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Culross  ;  I  do  not  allow  any  inter- 
ference between  my  father  and  myself.  I  must  ask  you 
to  excuse  me  now,  while  I  go  to  him." 

Without  another  word,  without  even  a  look,  she  swept 
from  the  room.  She  had  been  haughty,  contemptuous, 
scornful  of  him,  but  he  could  have  knelt  and  kissed  the 
hem  of  her  robe  as  she  passed  him  by, 


WEDDED  AND  PASTED.  40 

"  How  does  he  dare  to  be  so  insolent  ?  "  she  said  to 
herself.  "He  to  pray  that  I  would  listen  to  my  father 
— he,  a  plebeian,  a  parvenu — I,  the  daughter  of  an  Eng- 
lish earl !  " 

Her  eyes  flashed  unutterable  scorn  ;  her  lip  curled  in 
a  haughty  smile  ;  her  beautiful  face  flushed.  She  went 
into  the  library,  and  saw  her  father  seated  in  his  favor- 
ite chair  by  the  fire. 

"  Close  the  door,  lanthe,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  without  being  disturbed." 

She  saw  tears  on  his  face.  He  stretched  out  his  arms 
to  her. 

"  lanthe,  my  darling,  come  here,"  he  said — "  here, 
where  I  can  kiss  you  and  plead  to  you  and  pray  to  you  ! ' ' 

She  sat  down  on  the  little  stool  at  his  feet,  resting  her 
hands  on  his  knees,  looking  with  tender,  loving  eyes 
into  his  face.  Still  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  begin. 

"  lanthe,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Help  has  come.  Oh, 
my  darling,  I  have  seen  the  first  gleam  of  light  since  the 
darkness  surrounded  me,  and  I  am  ill,  weak,  faint  with 
joy  !  lanthe,  I  have  seen  the  way  in  which  I  can  be 
saved." 

Then  his  strength  seemed  to  fail  him,  the  courage  that 
upheld  him  died  away ;  he  bent  his  face  over  her  and 
wept  like  a  child. 

"Only  Heaven  knows,"  he  sobbed,  "what  I  have 
suffered,  lanthe  !  I  have  seen  myself  impoverished,  im- 
prisoned— my  fortune  lost — my  name  disgraced — my 
only  child  working  for  her  daily  bread.  I  have  heard 
myself  called  thief,  impostor,  and  it  has  nearly  killed 
4 


60  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

me.  Now  ft  is  all  over — all  over.  I  could  not  have 
faced  it,  lanthe." 

"  How  you  have  suffered,  papa  !  "  she  said,  gently. 
"  And  you  have  not  told  me.  I  did  not  know  one 
half." 

"I  could  not  tell  you,  my  darling.  There  are  sor- 
rows that  cannot  be  put  into  words.  Mine  could  not 

its  very  magnkude  appalled  me.  It  is  over,  thank 
Heaven  ! — I  am  all  unworthy,  but  I  see  light  at  last.  I 
see  a  stretch  of  years  before  me.  I  see  my  name  held  in 
honor — I  see  grandchildren  climbing  round  my  knee, 
and  I  thank  Heaven." 

Her  face  brightened  as  she  listened  to  him. 

"  I  too  am  glad,  dear,"  she  said,  gently;  "  I  feel  your 
joy  as  I  did  your  sorrow.  I  would  have  sold  my  life  for 
you,  had  I  been  able." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  she  saw  something  of  anxious 
fear  in  his  eyes.  He  laid  his  two  hands  on  her  shoul- 
ders, gazing  at  her  long  and  anxiously. 

"  It  all  depends  on  you,  lanthe,"  he  said — "  all  on 
you." 

"  On  me,  papa  ?    How  can  that  be  ?  " 

"  You  said  you  would  have  sold  your  life  to  help  me, 
lanthe.  Did  you  mean  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  did.  I  would  have  freely  died  to  save  you — and 
the  name  of  Carre." 

"  You  have  not  to  die,  my  darling  ;  you  have  but  to 
lay  aside  a  prejudice.  Listen,  lanthe.  Herman  Cul- 
ross  is  a  most  noble  minded  man.  He  has  offered — 
why,  my  darling,  I  can  hardly  find  words  in  which  to 
tell  you  of  his  offer,  it  is  so  noble  !  In  the  first  place, 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  5) 

he  will,  lend  again,  on  terms  you  shall  hear,  the  ten 
thousand  pounds,  so  that  Croombe,  my  beloved  home, 
shall  not  pass  from  us ;  next  he  will  place  to  my  account 
the  five  thousand  pounds  that  I  owe  to  Wyndham  Carre, 
so  that  I  can  repay  him  at  once,  and  my  name  not  be 
branded ;  lastly,  of  that  miserable  two  hundred  thou- 
sand I  have  borrowed,  he  will,  from  his  own  moneys, 
pay  one,  and  the  other  is  to  be  repaid  by  installments 
from  the  estate — so  that  I  shall  be  free.  I  can  hardly 
say  the  words,  lanthe — I  shall  be  free.  I  shall  still  keep 
up  the  state  befitting  Maurice,  Earl  of  Carre — I  shall  die 
with  my  name  unstained,  and  the  world  will  never  know 
the  ordeal  through  which  I  have  passed." 

She  kissed  the  trembling  hands  that  held  hers  in  a  fee- 
ble grasp. 

"He  is  the  noblest,  the  kindest,  the  most  generous 
man  in  all  the  world,"  she  said  ;  "but,  papa  darling, 
how  does  all  this  depend  on  me?  I  do  not  under- 
stand." 

"  It  depends  on  you,  and  you  alone,  lanthe,"  he  re- 
plied. "Why  do  you  imagine  Herman  Culross  is  ready 
to  do  all  this  for  us  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  a  privilege  to  help  you,  papa." 

"  No,"  said  the  Earl,  "  it  is  because  he  loves  you." 

"  Loves  me  !  "  she  repeated  haughtily. 

"  Yes,  loves  you  as  I  do  not  think  any  man  ever  loved 
a  woman  before — loves  you,  and  wants  to  make  you  his 
wife." 

"His  wife!"  she  exclaimed,  with  imperial  disdain. 
"  Papa,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?  I — lanthe 
Carre — that  man's  wife !  " 


52  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

"  And  why  not,  my  darling?     Why  not?" 

"You  to  ask  me  such  a  question  !  I  am  a  peer's 
daughter.  I  have  some  of  the  best  blood  in  England  in 
my  veins.  He  is  a  plebeian,  a  parvenu.  I,  lanthe 
Carre,  marry  him  !  I  would  die  a  hundred  deaths  first." 
She  rose  in  her  superb  disdain,  with  flashing  eyes  and 
heaving  breast. 

He  rose  too,  and  stood  before  her,  the  picture  of  de- 
spair. 

"You  refuse,  lanthe — you,  my  only  child,  who  pro- 
fessed your  willingness  to  die  for  me  ?  You  refuse  ?  " 

"What  else  can  I  do?"  she  demanded  passionately. 
"I  would  have  given  my  life  for  you;  but  I  cannot 
marry  him — a  commoner — a  manufacturer's  son — a  man 
whose  hand  even  I  have  never  touched.  He  is  generous 
indeed,  with  true  plebeian  generosity,  to  offer  to  buy 
me  !  What  is  the  purchase  money,  papa  !  One  hundred 
and  fifteen  thousand  pounds !  At  least  I  am  highly 
rated.  Oh,  that  I  should  have  lived  to  see  this  day  !  " 

He  sat  down  again  under  the  passionate  torrent  of  her 
words ;  and  the  white,  haggard  despair  that  came  over 
his  face,  even  in  the  midst  of  her  angry  pride,  frightened 
her. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  meekly,  "  it  cannot  be,  lanthe. 
I  will  not  force  you,  child — my  only  child.  I  am  not 
worth  saving.  There  is  no  light — only  the  darkness, 
growing  deeper  and  deeper." 

"I  cannot  sell  myself,  papa,"  returned  lanthe.  "  If 
he  is  so  generous  and  so  kind,  let  him  help  without  any 
reference  to  me — that  would  be  generosity." 

"But,  lanthe,  he  loves  you,"  was  the  eager  rejoinder. 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  53 

"  He  tells  me  that  he  has  loved  you  for  many  years.  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  you  when  he  came  here  a  boy.  He 
says  that  he  has  loved  you  ever  since — that  he  has  never 
even  cared  to  look  into  another  woman's  face.  There  is 
constancy  for  you  !  Oh,  lanthe,  does  it  not  touch  your 
heart — this  long,  silent  love  of  years?  " 

"  How  could  he  love  me?  He  was  only  a  boy,"  she 
said,  scornfully.  "What  is  a  boy's  love?  He  was  an 
impertinent  boy,  or  he  would  not  have  dared  to  think  of 
such  a  thing." 

"He  is  not  a  boy  now,  lanthe,"  observed  the  Earl, 
sadly. 

"No,  but  he  has  the  impertinence  of  one,"  she  re- 
turned hastily.  "I  cannot  doit,  papa.  Pride  of  race 
is  stronger  in  me  than  love  of  life  !  I  cannot  marry  this 
man,  who  owes  his  position  to  trade." 

She  turned  away  with  a  quick  shudder,  and  then 
looked  down  in  fear.  Her  father  was  kneeling  at  her 
feet,  his  white  head  bent  in  lowly  supplication  before 
her.  He  held  out  his  hands. 

" See,  lanthe,  I  am  praying  to  you,  my  dear;  for  my 
«ake,  for  Heaven's  sake,  help  me — do  not  leave  me  to 
die  in  despair  !  " 

"You  torture  me  !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  papa,  do  not 
kneel  there  at  my  feet !  You  make  me  ashamed." 

"  You  will  grant  my  prayer,  lanthe — you  will  save 
me?  "  he  moaned. 

"  Give  me  until  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "  I — I  cannot 
answer  you  at  once." 

And,  bending  hastily  over  him,  and  touching  his  worn 
face  with  her  quivering  lips,  she  quitted  the  room. 


54  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

"Until  to-morrow."    At  least  it  was  a  respite  of  some 
hours,  and  would  give  her  time  to  think. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IT  was  well  for  Herman  Culross  that  Lady  lanthe  did 
not  meet  him  as  she  went  to  her  room — he  would  have 
fared  ill.  She  was  cruelly  unjust  and  unkind  to  him. 
She  was  irritated  against  him  with  passionate  anger  be- 
cause he  had  dared  to  think  of  her  as  his  wife.  That  he 
should  have  dared,  because  of  the  mere  vulgar  accident 
of  wealth,  to  ask  her  to  marry  him.  That  he  should 
have  been  so  blind  as  to  overlook  the  difference  between 
them!  That  he  should  have  imagined  anything  could 
bring  her,  Lady  Carre,  to  his  level! 

"To  talk  of  loving  me!"  she  cried,  haughtily.  "To 
call  his  boyish  impertinence  love,  and  to  tell  my  father! 
To  talk  of  his  constancy  to  me!  Does  he  think  that  I 
am  a  white  slave,  to  be  purchased  by  so  much  gold — to 
be  bought,  because  my  father  needs  money?" 

With  clasped  hands  and  angry  eyes  she  walked  rapidly 
to  and  fro. 

.  "It  is  so  like  a  commercial  transaction,"  she  said  bit- 
terly. "He  looks  upon  it  as  such.  My  father  is  ruined 
— he  is  in  urgent  need  of  so  much  money.  This  man 
comes  and  says  he  shall  have  it;  but  my  father's  daugh- 
ter shall  be  the  price.  A  nobleman  would  have  given 
the  money — lent  it — without  such  condition,  or  would 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  55 

have  refrained  from  offering  it.  He  asks  its  value. 
Could  anything  be  more  plebeian  !  Could  anything 
mark  more  strongly  the  difference  between  the  two  races. 
He  offers,  in  fact,  to  buy  me — me,  lanthe  Carre !  I  will 
not  marry  him.  I  would  rather  die  !  I  would  rather 
suffer  poverty,  hunger  or  anything  else,  than  marry  him, 
lowly  born,  lowly  bred." 

It  was  quite  decided.  She  would  not  marry  him.  She 
would  have  the  pleasure  of  showing  him  how  a  woman 
of  rank  could  bear  anything  better  than  a  marriage  like 
that.  She  would  have  the  triumph  of  showing  him  that 
she  valued  nobility  of  birth  far  more  than  the  glittering 
bauble  of  wealth.  She  rehearsed  over  and  over  again  to 
herself  the  bitter,  cutting,  sarcastic  words  in  which  she 
would  tell  him  this — the  haughty  dismissal  she  would 
give  him — this  man  who  had  insulted  her  with  his  love 
and  his  money. 

He  would  go  then.  He  would  leave  Croombe,  and, 
in  all  probability,  they  would  never  see  him  again.  Her 
father  would  miss  him — would  miss  his  kindly  services, 
his  constant  care ;  and  she  herself  would  feel  perhaps  a 
certain  kind  of  loss.  He  had  been  so  kind  and  useful ; 
but  then  he  had  marred  all  by  his  unbounded  presump- 
tion. 

"  I  should  really  have  begun  to  like  him  in  a  certain 
kind  of  way,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  if  he  had  not  done 
this  ;  biit  this  I  shall  never  pardon." 

She  did  not  even  feel  a  woman's  natural  vanity  in  the 
idea  that  such  a  man  loved  her  and  wished  to  marry  her. 
She  could  not  understand  the  compliment  coming  from 
him — it  was  an  insult, 


56  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

She  went  on  with  her  musings.  He  would  go :  he 
would  pass  out  of  their  life  forever ;  and  then  the  thun- 
derbolt would  fall — then  would  come  shame,  disgrace, 
ruin.  Croombe  would  pass  into  his  hands  ;  Wyndham 
would  learn  that  his  money  had  all  been  spent ;  there 
would  be  shame  and  sorrow  unutterable.  Thus  would 
end  the  noble  and  ancient  race  whose  glory  had  been  so 
dear  to  her. 

Never  mind — she  would  have  had  her  triumph  !  She 
would  have  dismissed  the  man  who  had  humiliated  her. 
He  would  be  master  at  Croombe,  but  he  would  have 
found  some  one  who  despised  his  money  and  his  low 
birth. 

Suddenly  she  saw,  as  in  a  dream,  a  white  head  bent 
before  her — her  father  kneeling  to  her  with  outstretched 
hands,  praying  her,  for  Heaven's  sake,  to  help  him,  to 
save  him.  She  who  professed  to  love  him  so  dearly  had 
refused  to  save  him.  She  would  enjoy  her  triumph,  but 
what  of  him  ?  Then  she  remembered  his  joy — childlike 
in  its  excess.  He  did  not  seem  to  have  doubted  her  ac- 
ceptance of  the  terms,  and  she  had  refused  them. 

How  he  had  suffered  !  What  agony  of  mind  he  must 
have  endured  !  Now  that  the  only  gleam  of  light  had 
departed,  what  might  not  happen? 

She  grew  frightened.  Sorrow  and  despair  such  as  his 
had  led  to  suicide.  Of  course  it  was  a  cowardly  action 
— every  one  knew  that.  But  her  father  was  old  and 
feeble ;  trouble  had  worn  away  the  strength  of  his  mind 
and  his  intellect ;  he  was  confused  in  his  ideas. 

What  could  she  do?  Watch  over  him  incessantly? 
Yes.  She  had  his  life  in  her  hands,  and  she  was  refus- 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  57 

ing  to  save  it.  With  one  word — only  one  word — she 
might  make  him  happy  beyond  all  measure — beyond  all 
words.  She  might  restore  him  to  affluence,  to  power,  to 
happiness,  to  peace  and  self-respect.  She  might  give  to 
him  the  reality  of  his  dream,  length  of  days  and  a  peace- 
ful grave. 

The  vision  of  the  old  Earl  kneeling  before  her  touched 
the  girl's  heart  with  keenest  pain. 

"My  poor  father,  ray  dear  father,  to  pray  such  a 
prayer  to  his  only  child,  and  to  be  refused  !  "  It  seemed 
terribly  cruel — nay,  the  more  she  thought  of  it  the  more 
she  shrank  from  her  decision.  Could  she,  his  beloved 
child,  plunge  him  again  into  the  abyss  of  despair  from 
which  he  had  been  almost  rescued  ? 

Was  there  no  other  alternative  ?  An  idea  occurred  to 
her.  She  would  see  Herman  Culross  herself,  and  ask 
him  if  he  could  suggest  iiothing  but  marriage ;  he  would 
not  dare  too  make  love  to  her  himself.  She  felt  sure  of 
that — he  stood  too  much  in  awe  of  her — but  he  would 
listen,  and  he  would  perhaps  suggest  something  else. 

She  would  see  him  early  in  the  morning,  and  tell  him 
that  nothing  should  induce  her  to  consent  to  the  mar- 
riage— it  was  simply  an  absurdity — but  that,  if  he  could 
find  some  means  of  befriending  her  father  she  would  be 
grateful  to  him  all  her  life.  Then  she  tried  to  sleep,  but 
her  pillow  that  night  seemed  a  hard  one.  There  was  no 
rest  to  be  found  on  it ;  she  could  only  meditate  on  the 
morrow's  meeting. 

She  rose  early  ;  she  resolved  to  see  him  as  soon  as  she 
could — to  end  the  suspense  and  the  misery,  to  see  what 
could  be  done.  Unconsciously,  she  lingered  long  over 


58  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

her  toilet ;  she  wished  to  look  her  very  best — not  to  at- 
tract his  attention,  but  that  she  might  impress  him  the 
more  deeply  with  her  dignity. 

She  remembered  then  that  it  would  not  perhaps  be 
very  pleasant  to  breakfast  alone  with  a  man  whom  she 
intended  to  crush  with  her  scorn.  She  sent  an  apology 
to  him,  and  ordered  breakfast  to  be  served  to  him  in  the 
dining-room.  Herman  hardly  knew  what  to  argue  from 
that— did  it  bode  good  or  ill  fortune  ?  He  was  soon  to 
know ;  while  Lady  lanthe  summoned  all  the  pride  and 
courage  of  her  race  to  do  battle  with  the  man  who  was 
at  the  same  time  her  greatest  friend  and  her  greatest  foe. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ONE  of  the  prettiest  rooms  at  Croombe  Abbey  was  the 
morning-room.  It  was  set  aside  for  the  use  of  the  ladies 
of  the  family,  and  was  furnished  with  the  utmost  taste 
and  elegance.  It  opened  into  a  conservatory  that  even 
in  wmter  was  filled  with  blooming  flowers  and  singing 
birds-;  that  opened,  in  its  turn,  on  to  a  soft  green  lawn, 
where,  during  the  summer,  pretty  fountains  rippled  and 
grand  old  trees  cast  a  grateful  shade.  It  was  an  elegant 
rather  than  a  handsome  room.  White  lace  curtains, 
hangings  of  pale-rose  silk,  a  few  exquisite  water-colors, 
and  a  white  Psyche  with  a  basket  of  crimson  flowers  at 
her  foot,  made  it  a  charming  retreat. 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  59 

It  was  here  that  Lady  lanthe  resolved  upon  seeing 
Herman.  She  sent  to  say  that  she  awaited  him,  and 
through  the  wide-open  door  he  caught  a  view  of  her  as 
she  stood  expecting  him.  She  was  leaning  against  the 
white  Psyche,  her  white  hands  touching  the  crimson 
flowers,  her  elegant  morning  dress  sweeping  the  ground, 
her  graceful  figure  slightly  bent,  deep  thought  and  grave 
anxiety  on  the  beautiful,  pure,  high-bred  face. 

The  man's  whole  heart  went  out  to  her  with  deep, 
passionate  love  that  was  almost  pain. 

"She  is  my  queen,"  he  thought — "beautiful  as  she  is 
proud;  but  I  will  win  her,  if  she  is  to  be  won." 

She  did  not  hear  him  at  first;  and  when,  at  the 
sound  of  footsteps,  she  looked  up  and  saw  him,  her  face 
burned  with  a  crimson  flush.  He  went  hastily  forward 
to  greet  her;  and  she  could  not  help  seeing  the  passion 
in  his  face,  the  love  in  his  eyes.  He  held  out  his  hand 
hurriedly  to  her;  but  she  shrank  from  the  impassioned 
greeting. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Culross,"  she  said — "I  wished  to 
see  you,  if  you  have  a  little  time  to  spare." 

"I  have  always  time  to  spare  for  you,  Lady  lanthe. 
I  ask  for  nothing  better  than  to  give  my  whole  life  to 
you." 

She  held  up  her  hand,  drawing  back  from  him  with 

<flH^u 

such  a  gesture  of  scorn  that  he  could  not  mistake  T^ 
Then,  for  half  a  minute,  she  was  silent — not  from  want 
of  words,  but  because  she  had  so  much  to  say  that  she 
hardly  knew  where  to  begin.  He  took  advantage  of  her 
silence. 
"Lady  lanthe,"  he  began,  "you  have  seen  Lord 


60  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

Carre ;  may  I  hope  and  pray  that  you  have  a  favorable 
answer  for  me?  " 

She  saw  the  passionate  love  and  wistfulness  in  his  face. 
In  any  other's  it  would  have  touched  her  deeply ;  in  him 
it  simply  hardened  her  heart.  Her  proud  bright  eyes 
glanced  serenely  at  hirn. 

"It  is  of  that  I  wished  to  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Culross  ; 
let  me  ask  you  first,  is  there  no  mistake  ?  Have  you 
really  laid  such  a  proposition  before  the  Earl,  my  father?" 

"  There  is  no  mistake,  Lady  lanthe,"  he  replied  ;  "I 
love  you,  and  the  one  passionate,  longing  desire  of  my 
heart  is  to  make  you  my  wife." 

"  We  will  place  the  matter  in  a  truer  light,  Mr.  Cul- 
ross," she  observed,  her  lip  curling.  "My  father  is  in 
urgent  need  of  some  money,  and  this  money  you  have 
offered  him  as  the  price  of  his  daughter's  hand." 

"  That  is  an  ungenerous  and — pardon  me — untruthful 
way  of  stating  the  fact.  Lady  lanthe,  I  ask  you  to  be 
my  wife  because  I  love  you  as  I  believe  man  has  rarely 
loved  woman  before ;  I  love  you  so  that  I  would  freely 
give  my  life  for  you." 

She  drew  her  graceful  figure  to  its  full  height,  and 
looked  at  him. 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Culross,"  she  said,  "that  for 
you  to  talk  to  me  about  what  you  please  to  call  love  is 
great  presumption  ?  " 

"  Why,  Lady  lanthe?  "  he  asked,  calmly. 

"The  question  hardly  requires  an  answer,"  she  re- 
plied. "  We  are  of  a  different  race,  of  a  different  or- 
der. I  have  no  wish  to  be  rude  or  to  speak  unpleasant 
truths,  but  are  you  aware  that,  but  for  the  fact  of  my 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  61 

father's  being  indebted  to  you,  you  would  never  have 
been  a  visitor  at  Croombe?  " 

"  I  bless  the  happy  fact  of  the  debt,"  he  remarked. 

"  You  ask  me,  lanthe  Carre,  to  marry  you,"  she  said. 
"Listen.  The  women  of  my  race  have  never  yet  con- 
tracted a  low  marriage." 

"Pardon  me,"  he  interrupted,  with  a  hot  flush,  "  I 
should  not  a  call  a  marriage  with  myself  a  low  mar- 
riage." 

"  I  should,"  she  declared,  with  cold  hauteur ;  "the 
women  of  my  race  have  married  always  in  their  own 
rank.  You  cannot  ask  me  to  forget  the  traditions  of  my 
order  so  far  as  to  marry  the  son  of  a  man  who  owes  his 
position  to  trade." 

"  I  do  ask  it,  Lady  lanthe,"  he  said. 

"I  should  expect  my  dead  ancestresses  to  rise  from 
their  graves  and  cry  out  against  such  a  desecration,  as  I 
may  call  it,  Mr.  Culross,"  she  rejoined,  quickly. 

' '  There  are  desecrations  that  seem  to  me  even  greater, 
Lady  lanthe,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  You  do  well  to  speak 
of  such  things  as  the  traditions  of  your  race ;  your  ideas 
are  indeed  traditionary.  The  haughty  exclusiveness  of 
high  birth  is  fast  dying  out ;  man  meets  his  fellow-man 
now  on  more  equal  terms  ;  there  are  more  aristocracies 
recognized  now  than  of  birth,  which  is  after  all  a  mere 
accident,  as  you  know." 

She  drew  back,  as  though  the  words  had  stung  her. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  kind,"  she  returned,  haught- 
ily. "Wealth  I  consider  a  mere  accident,  because  for- 
tune is  blind  and  never  follows  merit ;  but  with  nobility 
it  is  quite  another  thing." 


62  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

"There  are  other  aristocrat! cs,"  he  said,  "that  will 
in  time  do  away  with  this ;  the  nobility  of  genius,  of 
talent,  of  industry,  of  virtue,  is,  to  my  mind,  superior 
to  mere  nobility  of  birth." 

"  We  will  argue  no  more,"  she  decided,  "for  we  shall 
never  agree.  I  value  noble  birth  above  everything  else ; 
and,  believe  me,  Mr.  Culross,  I  could  not  overlook  the 
want  of  it." 

She  turned  haughtily  away,  but  he  drew  nearer  to  her. 

"  Lady  lanthe,  stay  and  listen  to  me.  It  was  not  to 
argue  on  this  world-worn  topic  that  we  have  met.  Your 
opinions  are  part  of  yourself;  I  respect  them — I  will 
never  seek  to  controvert  them — I  will  refrain  from  ever 
giving  utterance  to  mine.  Try  to  forget  and  to  over- 
look these  barriers  of  caste — try  to  think  of  me  only  as 
the  man  who  loves  you  so  that  he  would  die  for  you." 
His  words  died  away  in  a  passionate  murmur ;  the  pas- 
sion of  his  love  shone  in  his  face. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  replied  ;  "  I  could  never  forget  the 
distance  between  us  so  as  to  love  you — do  not  ask  me." 

"  Then  you  decidedly  refuse  me?  "  he  said. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  her  mind  the  memory  of  the 
old  Earl  kneeling  with  outstretched  hands,  and  crying  to 
her  for  help.  Could  she  send  this  only  chance  of  help 
far  from  him. 

"  Stay,  Mr.  Culross,"  she  said,  hastily;  "  let  me  ask 
you,  in  my  turn,  can  you  not  be  generous,  and  help  my 
father  without — without  reference  to  me  ?  " 

"No,"  he  replied,  calmly,  "  you  ask  what  is  beyond 
me — I  cannot." 

"It  is  so  like  a  trader,"  she  cried,  proudly,  "  to  ask 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  63 

a  price  even  for  his  virtues,  to  sell  even  his  benevolence, 
to  wish  to  purchase  a  wife  whom  he  can  obtain  on  no 
other  terms.  A  man  of  birth  would  save  my  father  and 
scorn  to  make  his  daughter's  hand  the  price  of  his 
safety." 

"  Not  if  he  loved  that  daughter,"  said  Herman  Cul- 
ross.  "  Pardon  me,  a  man  who  loves  a  woman  will  try 
all  he  can  to  win  her." 

"  That  is  plebeian  love,  Mr.  Culross — a  man  of  b*irth 
loves  differently  ;  he  prefers  the  happiness  of  the  woman 
he  loves  to  his  own." 

"  Pardon  me  again  if  I  venture  to  say  that  your  no- 
tions are  quite  fanciful,  Lady  lanthe.  Will  you  let  me 
speak  to  you  about  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  plebeian 
love — love  which,  if  you  had  seen  it  in  a  man  whom  you 
deemed  noble,  you  would  have  considered  exalted  chiv- 
alry." 

"  I  cannot  prevent  your  telling  me  what  you  choose, 
Mr.  Culross,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  resignation.  "  I 
have  no  choice,  save  to  listen." 

"Many  years  ago,"  he  began,  "when  I  was  quite  a 
boy,  I  was  invited  to  spend  my  holidays  with  my  father's 
solicitor  in  London  ;  and  it  so  happened  that  on  our  way 
thither,  business  brought  him  to  Croombe,  and  I  came 
with  him.  I  was  only  a  boy,  Lady  lanthe,  untrained, 
unformed,  ignorant — a  manufacturer's  son,  utterly,  I 
grant,  beneath  the  notice  of  Lady  Carre ;  but  the  ignor- 
ant boy,  the  manufacturer's  son,  had,  I  suppose,  a  poet's 
soul  and  an  artist's  mind — had  something  in  him  that 
raised  him  above  a  mere  clod.  I  was  a  boy ;  and,  walk- 
ing in  this  grand  old  park  of  yours,  where  the  trees  are 


64  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

centuries  old,  I  saw  what  seemed  to  my  boyish  eyes  a 
vision  of  perfect  grace  and  bewildering  beauty — a  bright 
young  girl,  who  passed  me  with  drooping  eyes.  She 
vouchsafed  me  one  glance — proud,  careless,  indifferent 
— and  then  went  on  her  way  and  forgot  me ;  but  my 
heart  went  with  her.  I  was  only  a  boy,  standing  under 
the  light  of  the  summer  sky,  blinded,  dazed,  bewildered 
by  the  bright  vision — only  a  boy — yet  in  that  moment  a 
man's  passionate  love  came  to  me,  and  I  was  a  boy  no 
more.  How  that  fair,  proud,  girlish  face  haunted  me 
afterward  !  Look  where  I  would,  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
proud  eyes  and  tender,  haughty  lips.  Only  a  boy,  yet 
to  be  so  haunted  !  I  inquired,  and  found  that  the  fair 
vision  was  no  other  than  Lady  Carre.  Then  I  said  to 
myself  that  I  would  study  hard,  that  I  would  work  as 
man  had  never  worked,  that  I  would  make  for  myself  a 
name  that  should  be  famous  all  over  the  land,  and  then, 
if  I  could,  I  would  win  Lady  Carre.  I  was  a  boy  when 
I  made  that  resolve,  but  my  love  grew  with  my  growth ; 
it  shielded  me  in  every  temptation,  it  helped  me  in  every 
difficulty,  it  spurred  me  on  to  the  dizziest  heights  of  am- 
bition ;  and  now — now,  Lady  lanthe,  that  time  has  ma- 
tured it — that  it  has  grown  to  be  more  to  me  than  life 
itself,  I  bring  it  to  you,  and,  kneeling  at  your  feet,  offer 
it  to  you.' 

The  passion  of  his  words  touched  her — the  handsome 
pleading  face  touched  her — but  she  drew  back  coldly. 

"  I  cannot  take  it,"  she  said,  "  for  I  can  never  return 
it." 

"  If  I  were  what  you  call  noble,  Lady  lanthe,  would 
you  be  touched  by  this  great  and  constant  love?  " 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  65 

"  If  you  were  of  my  order,"  she  said,  "  I  might  learn 
to  care  for  you." 

"And  in  one  nobly  born  you  would  say  that  was  a 
chivalrous  love?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  frankly,  "  I  should." 

"  But,  because  I  am  a  son  of  the  people,  a  man  whose 
father  rose  by  his  own  industry,  you  consider  my  love  an 
impertinence,  and  you  refuse  to  accept  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  candidly. 

Herman  Culross  stood  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence  ; 
he  did  not  know  how  to  contend  with  pride  so  bitter,  so 
great  as  this. 

"Will  you  tell  me  one  thing,  Lady  lanthe?"  he 
asked.  "  Do  you  love  any  one  else  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  at  first — the  struggle  in  her  own 
mind  was  great.  Pride  urged  her  to  refuse  to  answer, 
but  the  memory  of  her  father  on  his  knees  urged  her  to 
temporize. 

"  I  do  not  love  any  one  else,"  she  replied  ;  "I  love 
only  my  father." 

"Then,  Lady  lanthe,"  he  said,  "even  were  your 
heart  harder  and  colder  than  marble,  I  shall  win  you  yet 
— I  shall  win  you  by  the  force  of  my  own  great,  mighty, 
passionate  love." 

"  Mr.  Culross,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  it  is  quite  impos- 
sible for  me  to  love  you.  I  cannot  alter  my  whole  na- 
ture— I  cannot  act  against  the  cherished  convictions  of 
my  whole  life.  Will  you  not  be  generous,  and  save  my 
father  without  asking  this  great  sacrifice  from  me?  " 

"  I  cannot,"  he  replied.     "  If  you  had  confessed  that 
you  loved  any  one  else,  I  would  say  no  more  ;  but  you 
5 


66  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

are  to  be  won — therefore  will  I  give  my  whole  life  to  the 
winning  of  you." 

"You  will  not  succeed,"  she  said.  "  It  were  better 
that  the  whole  race  of  the  Carres  should  sink  into  ob- 
scurity than  that  the  last  of  them  should  stain  her  name 
by  such  a  marriage." 

"  You  refuse  me  because  I  am  a  commoner — because 
I  have  no  pedigree,  am  not  of  noble  birth?  " 

"Yes,  for  those  reasons,"  she  said. 

"Lady  lanthe,"  he  continued,  earnestly,  "do  you 
think  that  noble  souls  belong,  like  hereditary  estates,  to 
men  of  noble  birth  ? ' ' 

"  I  have  always  believed  so,"  she  replied. 

"  Have  you  never  heard  of  a  nobleman  being  a  thief, 
a  forger,  robbing  his  ward,  betraying  his  trust?  " 

"Those  are  the  exceptions,  not  the  rule,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"Still  you  have  heard  of  such  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  deny  it." 

"And  you  have  heard  of  poor  men  who  have  not 
hesitated  to  give  their  lives  to  save  others — of  soldiers 
receiving  the  bayonet-thrust  meant  for  their  captain — of 
sailors  giving  their  place  in  a  life-boat  to  a  woman  and 
child  and  dying  in  jtheir  stead — of  firemen  content  to 
save  a  little  one  and  die  in  its  place — you  have  heard  of 
such?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  slowly,  "I  have." 

"  Then  how  can  you  say  that  noble  souls  belong  only 
to  men  of  noble  birth  ?  You  see  that  it  is  not  so.  Some 
of  our  greatest  men  have  sprung  from  the  people.  Lady 
lanthe,  let  me  prove  to  you  that  a  commoner's  son  can 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  67 

be  chivalrous  and  true — let  me  prove  to  you  that  I, 
though  sprung  from  the  people,  can  love  you  as  loyally 
and  nobly  as  any  peer  of  the  realm." 

"  I  cannot,"  she  said,  with  more  of  pride  and  hauteur 
than  he  had  seen  in  her  yet.  "It  is  an  impossibility." 

For  a  few  minutes  silence  fell  over  both.  Herman 
was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"I  repeat,  Lady  lanthe,"  he  said,  "that,  if  your 
heart  were  colder  and  harder  than  this  marble  Psyche,  I 
would  win  you  by  the  might  of  my  passionate  love.  You 
think  that  you  would  make  a  great  sacrifice  if  you  mar- 
ried me,  and  that  the  sacrifice  would  be  all  yours?  " 

"  I  do  think  so,"  she  put  in. 

"  Then  will  you  listen  to  me  for  a  few  minutes  longer  ? 
If  I  could  hope  to  interest  you  in  my  father,  I  should 
tell  you  of  how  he  worked  incessantly,  how  he  toiled  al- 
most night  and  day,  how  he  accumulated  a  vast  fortune 
by  his  own  talent  and  industry,  how  he  lived  and  died 
with  one  great  hope — it  was  the  hope  of  being  the  foun- 
der of  a  family." 

"  A  poor  ambition,"  she  replied. 

"Poor  in  your  eyes,  Lady  lanthe,  great  in  his,"  com- 
mented Herman  ;  and  then  he  resumed — "  He  talked  to 
me  of  nothing  else.  He  hoped  and  prayed  that  in  time 
the  name  of  Culross  might  be  a  power  in  the  land,  and 
he  trained  me  in  that  hope.  When  your  father  spoke  to 
me  and  told  me  his  troubles,  I  buried  that  hope — I  laid 
it  at  your  feet.  I  told  him  that  if  you  would  learn  to 
care  for  me  I  would  consent  to  his  wish.  I  would  take 
out  by  letters-patent  the  right  to  bear  your  name,  so  that 
it  should  not  die ;  and,  believe,  me  Lady  lanthe,  scorn 


68  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

me  as  much  as  you  may,  I  make  as  great  a  sacrifice  in  re- 
nouncing my  father's  favorite  idea  as  you  would  do  in 
giving  up  the  cherished  prejudice  of  your  life.  It  is  a 
sacrifice  to  me,  but  I  make  it  most  gladly,  as  I  would  the 
sacrifice  of  my  life,  were  it  pleasing  to  you." 

"  I  do  not  respect  you  the  more  for  it,"  she  replied, 
coldly.  "A  man  who  had  any  name  to  be  proud  of 
would  not  so  lightly  give  it  up." 

"  It  is  for  your  sake,  Lady  lanthe.  Oh,  listen  to  me  ! 
Let  me  plead  to  you,  pray  to  you  !  In  time  you  must 
appreciate  my  great  love — must  learn  to  understand  it — 
must  return  it — I  am  content  to  wait." 

*'  Yet  your  great  love  will  not  permit  you  to  save  my 
father  without  sacrificing  me?  " 

"  No ;  for  in  so  doing  I  lose  my  only  chance  of  win- 
ning you.  Do  not  send  me  away  !  If  you  will  not  be 
kind  to  me  for  my  own  sake,  be  so  for  your  father's. 
You  would  smile  on  me  if  you  had  seen  his  face  brighten 
when  I  laid  all  my  plans  before  him.  Lady  lanthe,  I 
Odly  ask  permission  to  lavish  my  wealth  on  you — to  use 
it  in  your  service.  I  will  make  your  father's  heart  glad 
with  inexpressible  joy.  I  will  clear  off  all  his  debts.  I 
will  restore  this  grand  old  domain  to  more  than  its  an- 
cient grandeur.  I  will  devote  my  whole  life  to  the  Earl 
and  to  you.  I  will  be  content  to  sink  my  own  identity. 
I  will  work  and  strive  and  labor  for  the  glory  of  the 
Carres  of  Croombe.  Will  you  give  me  one  word  of  en- 
couragement, Lady  lanthe?  " 

He  had  drawn  nearer  to  her,  and  in  the  passionate 
hurry  of  his  words  he  laid  one  hand  on  hers.  She  with- 
drew it  as  though  he  had  suddenly  touched  it  with  fire ; 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  69 

and  then,  with  a  strangely  frank  smile,  she  looked  at 
him. 

"How  can  you  ask  me  to  marry  you  when  I  shrink 
from  the  very  touch  of  your  hand?"  she  asked. 

"But  you  would  not  always.  I  have  faith  in  my  own 
great  love.  It  would  win  something  in  return.  Lady 
lanthe,  if  you  send  me  away  you  will  kill  your  father. 
All  his  hopes  are  based  on  this  marriage." 

"Do  you  think  it  is  manly  to  force  me  into  a  marriage 
because  I  love  my  father — because  it  is  the  only  way  in 
which  I  can  save  him?"  she  asked,  with  sudden  passion. 

"I  should  not  think  it  manly  if  I  despaired  of  win- 
ning your  love  and  making  you  happy;  but  I  know  I  can 
do  both.  I  have  faith  to  that  extent." 

She  knew  that  he  had  spoken  the  truth — that  the  only 
means  of  saving  her  father's  life,  of  saving  the  old  name 
from  discredit  and  disgrace,  was  by  marrying  him — yet 
at  the  moment  that  she  realized  it  she  most  disliked  him. 
She  opened  her  beautiful  eyes  and  looked  fixedly  at  him. 

"Are  you  content  to  marry  me,"  she  asked,  "know- 
ing that  I  despise  you — that  I  look  upon  you  with  con- 
tempt?" 

"Lady  lanthe,"  he  said,  "I  shall  know  how  to  change 
that  into  love;  and  I  would  rather  have  your  contempt, 
your  scorn,  than  the  warmest  affection  of  any  other 
woman!" 

"Are  you  content  to  marry  me,  knowing  that  I  feel  that 
nothing  can  bridge  over  the  distance  between  us —  nothing 
can  set  you  by  my  side  as  my  equal — nothing  can  make 
me  forget  that  you  are  a  plebeian — nothing  can  make  me 
overlook  your  social  inferiority?" 


70  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

"  I  am  content,"  he  replied.  "You  love  no  one  else 
__it  will  all  come  in  time." 

"My  love  will  not  come,"  she  cried— "  never  think 

that." 

"  I  am  content,"  he  repeated. 

For  some  minutes  she  was  silent,  evidently  struggling 
with  her  anger,  and  then  she  said,  slowly : 

"I  repeat  that  you  are  doing  an  unmanly  thing  in 
forcing  me  to  marry  you.  You  force  me  because  you 
leave  me  no  alternative;  I  must  crush  my  father  or 
marry  you.  I  love  my  father,  as  I  have  always  done, 
better  than  the  whole  world  besides  ;  that  love  is  the 
master-passion  of  my  life.  To  save  him,  I  am  driven  to 
marry  a  man  whom  I  neither  know,  nor  like,  nor  esteem, 

nor  love." 

«  It  will  come,"  he  repeated.  "  I  love  you  so  dearly, 
and  I  long  so  passionately  for  your  love,  that  I  shall  be 
content  with  any  terms." 

Her  face  flushed  crimson. 

"Will  you?"  she  returned.  "Then  I  will  make 
those  terms  as  difficult  for  you  as  I  can.  I  will  be  your 
wife—that  is,  you  shall  bear  my  name— but  you  shall 
never  even  touch  my  hands ;  you  will  have  secured  me, 
you  will  have  fast  bound  me— that  seems  to  me  all  you 
wish— but  no  word  of  love  shall  ever  cross  my  lips  to 
you ;  we  shall  be  together,  and  yet  be  further  apart  than 
strangers together  without  love  or  affection.  If  I  con- 
sent at  all,  it  will  be  only  on  those  terms.  It  is  for  you 
to  decide  whether  you  will  accept  them.  If,  after  ac- 
cepting, you  break  them,  presume  to  ask  from  me  words 
of  affection,  presume  to  touch  my  hand,  to  thrust  your 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  71 

society  upon  me,  then  I  swear  that  I  will  instantly  leave 
the  house.  Are  you  satisfied  to  have  me  as  your  wife  on 
those  terms?" 

He  looked  at  her ;  she  was  to  him  so  royally  beautiful 
in  her  scorn,  so  fair  in  her  anger  and  defiance,  so  much 
more  winning  even  so  than  any  other  woman  in  her  most 
complaisant  mood  that  he  felt  that  he  could  have  given 
his  life  even  for  that  small  victory. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "You  love  no  one  else.  I  am  con- 
tent to  wait ;  you  will  know  me  and  love  me  better  in 
time." 

"Then,  if  on  those  terms  you  consent  to  lose  your 
identity,  and  devote  your  life  to  the  service  of  the 
Carres  of  Croombe,"  she  said,  imperially,  "I  accept 
your  service,  and  our  interview  is  ended." 

She  spoke  with  ill-concealed  contempt ;  but  Herman 
Culross  repeated  to  himself  that  love  would  come  in 
time. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

FOR  some  time  after  Lady  lanthe  had  swept  from  the 
room,  Herman  Culross  stood  thinking  profoundly.  To 
him,  a  son  of  the  people,  a  man  of  thought  and  culture, 
a  broad-souled,  large-minded  philosopher,  there  was 
something  almost  unreal  in  Lady  Carre's  strong  family 
pride.  He  could  not  understand  it.  He  could  have  un- 


72  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

derstood  her  being  proud  of  her  beauty,  or  of  her  mag- 
nificent home,  but  her  pride  of  ancestry  was  quite  be- 
yond him.  He  thought  of  it  with  a  smile  as  the  caprice, 
the  whim,  the  one  failing  of  the  loveliest  woman  he  had 
ever  seen.  He  should  be  well  able  to  conquer  it,  he 
thought ;  at  least,  she  loved  no  one  else — that  was  one 
great  point,  one  great  ground  of  hope.  She  loved  no 
other  man,  and,  though  he  was  not  even  to  touch  her 
hand  or  presume  to  say  one  affectionate  word  to  her,  still 
they  would  be  together — they  would  be  under  the  same 
roof,  they  would  have  at  least  some  cares  and  some 
duties  in  common.  It  would  be  strange  if,  with  all  those 
opportunities,  he  could  not  win  her  love. 

At  first  he  had  been  inclined  to  reject  her  terms  with 
as  much  scorn  as  she  had  shown  herself — they  were  un- 
worthy of  him  and  his  love.  Then  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  could  give  her  a  lesson  in  true  nobility.  He 
would  give  her  all  and  take  nothing — he  would  pour  out 
his  devotion  with  so  lavish  a  hand  that  she  would  not  be 
able  to  help  returning  some  of  it.  She  should  see  that 
it  was  possible  for  a  commoner  to  have  the  soul  of  a  gen- 
tleman. He  would  treat  her  with  such  chivalry,  such 
delicacy,  that  she  would  be  compelled  to  admire 
him,  to  admit  that  a  plebeian  could  have  the  virtues 
that  she  seemed  to  consider  belonged  by  right  divine 
to  the  nobles  of  the  land.  How  proud  she  was,  how 
scornful,  how  imperious,  but,  oh,  how  beautiful  and 
bright  ! 

Only  to  be  near  her,  to  breathe  the  same  air,  to  look 
at  her  radiant  face,  to  listen  to  the  music  of  her  voice, 
to  watch  the  grace  of  her  movements — it  would  be  bliss 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  73 

to  him.  He  would  win  her  yet — great  love  must  win  great 
love.  The  day  would  come  when  she  would  go  to  him, 
when  she  would  clasp  her  white  arms  round  his  neck, 
when  she  would  rest  her  fair,  proud  face  on  his  breast, 
and  say,  "My  husband,  I  have  learned  to  love  you  at 
last. "  It  was  worth  all  the  scorn,  all  the  contempt,  all  the 
weary  waiting.  He  was  content,  and,  with  the  whole 
force  of  his  honest  heart,  he  resolved  to  do  his  best — to 
make  her  happy  and  let  her  have  her  own  way. 

Lady  lanthe  went  at  once  to  her  father. 

The  old  Earl's  face  had  a  wistful  expression  as  he  raised 
it  to  hers. 

"You  have  no  good  news  for  me,  lanthe,"  he  said, 
despondingly;  "there  is  none  in  your  eyes." 

"Perhaps  you  will  think  it  good,  papa.  I  am  come  to 
tell  you  that  I  have  accepted  Mr.  Culross." 

He  could  not  repress  the  cry  of  joy  that  rose  to 
his  lips;  his  whole  aspect  changed.  His  cares  and 
troubles  seemed  to  fall  from  him;  he  rose  from  his  seat 
stronger  and  more  erect  than  she  had  seen  him  for  many 
a  day. 

"My  darling,"  he  said,  "my  beloved  lanthe,  you  have 
saved  my  life." 

"And  wrecked  my  own,"  she  thought.  But  meekly  and 
quietly  she  received  the  caresses  and  thanks  he  lavished 
on  her;  and  then,  when  he  was  calmer  and  could  listen  to 
her,  she  said: 

"I  have  been  quite  frank  with  Mr.  Culross,  papa.  I 
have  told  him  that  I  do  not  love  him,  and  that  I  never 
shall." 

"Never  shall?"  repeated  the  Earl,  in  dismay. 


74  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

"  No,  papa — never  !  I  have  explained  to  him  what  1 
think  of  such  marriages  as  this — what  I  think  of  social 
barriers — that  nothing  can  set  him  by  my  side  as  my 
equal." 

The  Earl  looked  at  her  in  astonishment  and  fear. 

"  Great  Heaven  !     And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

She  paused  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  replied  : 

"  All  that  he  said  was  very  sensible  in  its  way  ;  he  did 
not  seem  at  all  surprised." 

"  I  should  have  been  very  much  surprised  had  I  been 
in  his  place,"  said  Lord  Carre.  "  I  have  never  heard 
of  such  an  acceptance." 

"  I  showed  him  the  matter  as  it  really  stands — that  it 
is  simply  a  business  transaction — a  commercial  arrange- 
ment quite  in  his  line.  You  want  a  certain  sum  of 
money ;  he  has  it  to  lend,  and  promises  to  lend  it  if  he 
may  call  me  wife.  I  have  given  him  permission  to  do 
so.  You  see  there  is  no  question  of  sentiment ;  it  is 
purely  a  business-arrangement.  I  appealed  to  his  gener- 
osity ;  I  asked  him  to  help  you  without  any  reference  to 
me.  But  he  declined  ;  and  then  I  placed  the  matter  on 
its  proper  footing." 

"But,  lanthe,"  cried  the  Earl,  "he  loves  you — he 
does  indeed  !  If  ever  a  man  loved  a  woman,  he  loves 
you.  How  cruel  you  are  to  him  !  How  proud  you 
are !  " 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  love,  papa — believe  me.  I 
have  told  him  that  I  do  not,  and  never  shall,  love  him  ; 
yet,  if  he  will  not  save  you  on  any  other  terms,  I  am 
quite  willing  to  call  myself  his  wife." 

"  Well,"  said  Lord  Carre,  "  he  and  you  know  best. 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  75 

It  is  a  strange  affair.  He  is  satisfied,  I  suppose ;  but  1 
would  not  marry  a  woman  who  said  she  did  not  love  me, 
and  designated  the  marriage  as  a  matter  of  business." 

"Probably  not,"  allowed  Lady  lanthe;  "but  then 
you  are  an  Earl,  and  he  is  a  commoner.  He  is  content 
to  accept  that  which  you  would  scorn.  You  may  be  at 
rest  now,  papa — you  are  saved ;  there  will  be  no  more 
trouble  for  you." 

He  forgot  the  strangeness  of  the  position  then,  and 
fell  on  her  neck,  weeping  aloud  in  the  fulness  of  his  joy, 
crying  out  that  she  had  saved  him — that  he  was  free — 
and  praying  Heaven  to  bless  her. 

"  It  will  all  come  right  in  time,"  he  thought.  "  She 
will  be  compelled  to  love  him  when  she  realizes  how 
good  and  generous  and  kind  he  is." 

After  that  lanthe  went  to  her  own  room,  and  was  seen 
no  more  that  day. 

Lord  Carre  and  Mr.  Culross  had  an  interview  in  the 
evening.  They  were  both  rather  shy  of  approaching  the 
subject  at  first ;  it  was  the  Earl  who  broached  it. 

"  My  daughter  has  told  me  the  good  news,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "  I  am  to  call  you  my  son-in-law." 

"  Yes,"  responded  Herman ;  "and  I  hope  to  prove  a 
good  and  true  one." 

"You  found  my  warning  correct — my  daughter  is 
really  one«of  the  proudest  girls  in  England." 

"  Your  daughter  is  all  that  is  beautiful  and  charming. 
I  consider  myself  the  most  fortunate  of  men." 

"  She  must  have  rather  astonished  you,  though,  with 
her  ideas,"  observed  the  Earl. 

"  She  could  never  do  anything  but  delight  me  ;  the 


76  WEDDED  AND  PARTED 

least  caprice  sits  charmingly  on  her.  I  have  no  fear, 
Lord  Carre.  She  says  she  does  not  love  me ;  but,  if  the 
whole  strength  and  power  and  might  and  ardor  of  a 
man's  heart  can  win  a  woman,  I  shall  win  her  yet." 

"I  am  sure  of  it — it  is  only  a  matter  of  time,"  re- 
turned the  Earl. 

And  then  they  began  to  discuss  the  business  in  detail. 
If  she  would  consent,  the  marriage  was  to  be  at  the  end 
of  April.  The  mortgage  was  to  be  paid  off  at  once. 
Herman  would  place  five  thousand  pounds  to  Lord 
Carre's  account  immediately,  so  that  Wyndham  might 
draw  it  when  he  would.  And  steps  were  to  be  taken 
forthwith  for  the  repayment  of  the  enormous  loan. 

To  carry  out  these  arrangements  it  was  necessary  that 
Herman  Culross  should  go  to  London.  Before  going  he 
wished  to  have  some  definite  idea  as  to  the  date  of  the 
marriage — an  empty  ceremony  indeed,  since  it  was  to 
give  him  neither  the  love  nor  the  heart  of  his  wife,  not 
even  the  right  to  clasp  her  hand,  but  not  empty  after 
all,  since  it  was  to  bind  her  to  him  for  life. 

He  consulted  Lady  lanthe  upon  the  point.  She 
looked  at  him  with  proud,  silent  reproach. 

"  You  must  know  that  it  is  a  mere  idle  form  to  ask 
me  such  a  question,"  she  said.  "  What  can  it  possibly 
matter  to  me?  " 

' '  I  ventured  to  hope  that  you  might  take  some  slight 
interest  in  it,"  replied  Herman,  with  unconscious  satire. 

''It  is  a  business  arrangement,"  she  said,  "and  as 
such  it  can  be  speedily  arranged.  If  April  will  suit  the 
Earl,  my  father,  I  have  no  objection  to  raise.  There  is 
one  thing  I  should  like  to  mention — we  shall  be  com- 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  77 

pelled,  I  suppose,  to  go  somewhere  for  what  is  so  fool- 
ishly called  the  honeymoon — complete  nonsense  in  our 
case,  yet  we  must  conform  to  the  world's  customs ;  I 
wish  to  say  that  I  hope  it  will  be  arranged  with  as  little 
fuss  and  ceremony  as  possible." 

"  You  shall  be  obeyed,  Lady  lanthe,"  Herman  prom- 
ised, and  she  turned  haughtily  away. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

IT  was  a  strange  wedding,  although  no  outward  form 
or  ceremony  was  wanting.  Lord  Carre  had  insisted 
upon  having  everything  en  regie  ;  he  would  have  noth- 
ing omitted.  No  marriage  could  have  been  conducted 
,with  greater  state.  All  that  was  lacking  was  love.  The 
three  months  of  preparation  had  been  passed  in  a  state 
of  perfect  indifference  by  Lady  Carre.  She  had  accepted 
her  fate,  and  so  she  submitted  in  silence.  All  was  lost 
for  her  except  love  for  her  father.  Let  life  be  what  it 
might,  she  had  saved  him. 

She  was  serenely  calm,  proudly  indifferent.  Hap- 
pily for  her,  she  knew  nothing  of  other  love.  Her  life 
had  been  filled  by  entire  devotion  to  her  father.  She 
had  set  aside  all  the  homage  offered  to  her.  The  love  of 
suitors,  the  dawning  love  of  woman's  life,  was,  happily, 
as  a  dead  letter  to  her,  for,  if  she  had  had  to  fight 
against  love  in  addition  to  her  other  troubles,  her  life 

6 


78  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

would  indeed  have  been  a  hard  one.  She  was  serenely 
indifferent  when  questioned  or  consulted  about  the  ar- 
rangements for  the  wedding.  She  replied  much  as  she 
would  have  done  had  it  been  the  marriage  of  a  stranger. 
Her  interest  was  aroused  only  when  her  father  was  con- 
cerned. If  his  pleasure  or  his  convenience  was  in  ques- 
tion, then  she  was  quite  alive  to  everything ;  if  the  mat- 
ter concerned  simply  herself,  she  was  proudly  indifferent ; 
if  it  concerned  Mr.  Culross,  she  was  something  more 
than  proud. 

At  the  end  of  April  they  were  married  in  the  old 
church  at  Leahurst.  The  sun  shone  clear  on  that  strange 
wedding-morn — nature  seemed  to  be  bright  and  rejoic- 
ing. All  the  notabilities  of  the  county  had  been  invited. 
There  was  a  train  of  bridemaids  from  among  the  fairest 
and  noblest  girls  in  England.  They  were  in  raptures 
with  the  wedding,  for  Herman  had  spared  no  pains,  no 
expense.  He  seemed  to  have  thought  that  the  singu- 
larity of  the  circumstances  would  be  overlooked  amid  a 
profusion  of  magnificent  gifts.  No  bridemaids  had  ever 
been  presented  with  more  costly  mementos.  They  were 
loud  in  his  praises — he  was  so  generous,  so  handsome, 
so  kind  of  heart.  A  sumptuous  wedding-breakfast  was 
prepared,  a  large  party  of  guests  was  invited.  The 
children  from  the  Leahurst  schools  were  all  present 
strewing  flowers  before  the  bride — the  bells  of  Leahurst 
Church  pealed  merrily.  There  was  a  grand  fete  for  the 
tenantry,  a  feast  for  the  children. 

People  had  nothing  but  praise  for  the  wedding.  The 
bride  was  so  imperiously  beautiful,  her  costume  so  mag- 
nificent— the  bridegroom  so  handsome  and  so  generous 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  79 

— the  old  Earl  so  happy — every  one  so  highly  pleased  and 
pleasant — they  agreed  that  it  was  a  long  time  since  any- 
thing so  delightful  or  so  charming  had  been  seen.  No 
one  observed  that  the  pride  of  the  beautiful  bride  was 
unbending,  that  every  now  and  then  there  came  over  the 
bridegroom's  face  an  expression  of  deepest  sorrow — no 
one  guessed  that  it  was  a  marriage  entirely  without  love, 
"  a  mere  business  arrangement " — no  one  knew  that  the 
generous  bridegroom  was  ill  with  the  fever  of  love,  that 
he  would  have  laid  down  his  life  that  day  for  one  smile 
from  the  proud  lips  beside  him — no  one  guessed  that  the 
beautiful  young  bride  had  nothing  but  contemptuous 
scorn  for  the  man  by  her  side. 

So  they  stood  side  by  side  before  the  altar,  repeating 
the  solemn  words  that  bound  them  together  for  life ; 
and,  if  ever  man  meant  those  words,  it  was  Herman  Cul- 
ross — they  came  from  the  depths  of  his  heart.  Lady 
lanthe  tried  not  to  think  of  them.  The  only  thing  that 
sustained  her  and  gave  her  courage  was  the  pleased, 
happy,  bright  expression  of  her  father's  face. 

Standing  there  before  the  altar,  Herman  for  the  first 
time  held  her  hand  clasped  in  his,  the  little  white  un- 
gloved hand  without  jewels — he  held  it,  and  it  was  won- 
derful what  a  strange  novel  sensation  the  touch  gave  him. 
Had  Lady  lanthe  been  able,  she  would  have  withdrawn 
her  hand  from  him  in  indignant  haste.  Part  of  their 
compact  was  that  he  was  not  to  touch  her  hand ;  but  the 
eyes  of  the  world  were  on  them,  so  the  little  hand  lay 
quite  still  and  passive  in  his  warm  clasp.  He  held  it 
while  the  ring  was  placed  upon  it,  and  presently  he 
gently  relinquished  it,  saying  to  himself  that  it  would  be 


80  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

long  before  he  held  it  again.  But  there  was  a  look  in  his 
face  before  which  Lady  lanthe's  eyes  drooped,  and 
which  caused  her  heart  to  beat  with  strange,  quick  emo- 
tion. 

They  were  man  and  wife.  The  organ  pealed  forth — 
the  bells  rang — there  was  a  stir  in  the  brilliant  assembly. 
Herman's  heart  beat  rapidly,  there  was  a  flush  on  his 
face,  but  the  countenance  of  the  bride  was  cold  and  im- 
passive. Some  few  noticed  that  the  newly  married  pair 
did  not  walk  hand  in  hand  or  arm  in  arm  down  the 
church  aisle.  Herman  assisted  his  wife  into  the  carriage, 
and  then  took  his  seat  by  her  side,  both  bowing  in  re- 
sponse to  the  lingering  cheer  of  the  people  and  the  chil- 
dren ;  but  they  exchanged  few  words  during  the  drive. 
Looking  at  his  young  wife,  he  thought  she  was  unusually 
pale. 

"  Are  you  very  tired,  Lady  lanthe  ?  "  he  asked ;  and 
she  answered  "  Yes." 

Presently,  as  the  carriage  neared  the  grand  entrance, 
she  turned  to  him  hurriedly. 

"When  we  are  quite  alone,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  you  will  of  course  address  me  just  as  you  please  j  but 
perhaps,  now  that  we  are  married,  it  will  be  as  well  for 
you  to  call  me  lanthe — it  will  cause  less  remark." 

He  smiled,  but  there  was  something  of  bitterness  in 
his  smile. 

"  If  you  consider  it  no  breach  of  the  contract,  I  shall 
be  happy  to  do  so,"  he  replied. 

Then  they  entered  the  house  together.  Guests,  visi- 
tors, friends,  crowded  round  them  ;  good  wishes,  kind 
words,  hearty  greetings,  met  them  on  all  sides.  Lady 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  81 

lanthe  listened  with  a  charming  smile  on  her  beautiful 
face,  Herman  with  hope  and  bitterness  mingled  in  his 
heart ;  they  might  all  be  realized,  all  these  good  wishes, 
some  day,  when  his  dream  should  be  accomplished  and 
his  wife  should  clasp  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  say, 
"  I  love  you."  It  was  worth  waiting  for,  and  he  would 
wait. 

The  wedding  breakfast  was  a  great  success ;  the  su- 
perb wedding  presents  were  laid  out  in  the  grand  draw- 
ing-room. There  were  speeches  and  toasts ;  and  then  it 
was  announced  that  the  hour  of  departure  had  arrived. 

The  newly  married  pair  were  to  spend  the  honeymoon 
in  Paris ;  but  before  they  set  out  the  Earl  left  his  guests, 
and  went  to  a  room  seldom  opened — the  room  where 
lanthe's  fair  young  mother  had  died.  From  there  he 
sent  for  his  daughter.  She  came  to  him,  calm,  com- 
posed, indifferent. 

"My  darling,"  said  the  old  Earl,  in  a  trembling  voice, 
"  I  have  sent  for  you  because  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  here 
in  this  room  where  your  poor  mother  died;  I  want  to 
thank  and  to  bless  you — to  thank  you  because  you  have 
saved  me  from  terrible  shame,  from  great  disgrace — to 
bless  you  for  your  goodness  and  your  love." 

She  bent  down  to  kiss  him,  and  for  the  first  time  that 
day  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  If  he  was  so  well  content, 
then  indeed  her  sacrifice  was  well  repaid. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  lanthe,  how  happy  I  am,"  he 
went  on.  "Life  is  not  the  same;  I  am  twenty  years 
younger.  And  do  you  know,  my  darling,  I  have  an  idea 
that  I  shall  live  twenty  years  longer,  that  I  shall  see  my 
every  hope  fulfilled,  that  I  shall  see  my  grandchildren 


&  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

climb  my  knee,  that  I  shall  hear  the  music  of  childish 
voices,  and  grow  young  again  in  the  light  of  childish 
faces.  Oh,  lanthe,  how  I  bless  you — how  I  thank  you  !  " 

She  had  no  words  in  which  to  answer  him,  but  she 
kissed  the  trembling  hands  and  worn  face. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  so  well  content,"  she  returned; 
"  you  make  me  very  happy,  papa." 

And  then  the  Earl  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"One  word  before  you  go,  lanthe.  You  are  proud — 
people  call  you  one  of  the  proudest  girls  in  England. 
Do  not  be  proud  to  your  husband..  He  may  be  inferior 
to  you  in  birth,  in  social  position,  in  ancestry,  in  pedi- 
gree ;  but  he  has  the  heart  of  a  king — he  is  one  of  na- 
ture's noblemen,  a  man  above  most  men.  Love  him, 
lanthe  ;  he  is  worthy  of  all  love.  He  would  have  been 
a  fitting  husband  for  the  noblest  woman  on  earth.  Make 
him  happy,  for  we  owe  all  our  happiness  to  him.  You 
will  not  forget?" 

What  could  she  say — she,  who  had  forbidden  her  hus- 
band to  address  one  kindly  word  to  her,  who  had  treated 
him  with  the  haughtiest  disdain  ?  She  merely  clasped 
her  arms  round  the  old  man's  neck,  and  said  : 

"I  will  do  my  best,  papa.  Thank  Heaven  you  are 
happy  ?  "  And  then  they  came  to  tell  her  it  was  time 
to  go. 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  68 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  last  farewell  had  been  spoken,  the  last  greeting 
uttered,  the  Lady  lanthe  left  her  father's  home  with  the 
husband  she  so  heartily  contemned  by  her  side.  On  the 
morning  of  the  wedding  the  letters- patent  had  arrived, 
and  he  was  henceforward  to  be  known  as  Mr.  Carre.  It 
had  cost  him  a  sharp  pang  to  part  with  the  name  his 
father  had  desired  to  be  ennobled,  but  what  would  he 
not  have  borne  for  her  ? 

At  the  last  moment  Lady  lanthe  had  changed  her 
mind.  She  would  not  go  to  Paris — she  preferred  going 
at  once,  she  said,  to  Ostend.  So  they  were  to  go  by  the 
night  boat  from  Dover  to  Ostend. 

The  railway  journey  to  Dover  was  a  pleasant  one.  To 
her  intense  relief,  no  one  seemed  to  imagine  that  they 
were  a  newly  married  pair  commencing  their  honeymoon. 
Perhaps  it  was  for  this  purpose  that  she  had  chosen  a 
plain  sombre  traveling  costume.  No  one  would  have 
taken  her  for  a  bride.  The  few  who  noticed  them  won- 
dered at  her  marvelous  beauty,  and  at  the  silence  be- 
tween them,  imagining  them  to  be  brother  and  sister, 
who  were  perhaps  not  on  the  best  of  terms.  Herman 
was  most  kind  and  attentive.  He  had  provided  plenty 
of  papers  and  magazines ;  and  these  he  arranged  for  her. 
He  waited  upon  her  assiduously,  yet  always  without  in- 
truding, always  without  in  the  least  degree  trenching  on 
the  distance  she  had  placed  between  them. 


84  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

It  was  night  when  they  reached  Dover,  and  the  stars 
were  shining  on  the  sea.  He  persuaded  her  to  rest  for 
an  hour  at  the  Lord  Warden.  There  was  time  for  her  to 
take  supper  before  starting ;  and  he  busied  himself  in 
seeing  that  all  was  as  she  would  like  it.  He  waited  on 
her  every  wish ;  and  then,  when  the  time  for  starting 
had  arrived,  they  walked  down  the  pier  together.  She 
noticed  that  he  did  not  offer  her  his  arm ;  even  when 
they  had  reached  the  steps  he  stood  aside  while  someone 
else  rendered  her  assistance. 

It  was  a  glorious  night,  with  a  sweet  soft  wind  blow- 
ing, and  the  golden  stars  gleaming  in  the  depths  of  the 
sky.  The  sea  was  calm  as  a  lake — there  was  hardly  a 
ripple  on  its  surface — and  the  moon  was  rising  like  a 
silver  crescent  in  the  sky. 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  deck,  watching  the 
fast-receding  shore,  watching  the  stars  reflected  in  the 
waves,  until  nearly  an  hour  had  passed — they  having 
talked  not  unpleasantly — and  then  Herman  thought  of 
his  wife's  fatigue. 

"You  have  had  a  hard  day's  traveling, Lady  lanthe," 
he  said ;  "  will  you  not  go  to  your  cabin  and  rest  ?  " 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  and  laughed. 

"  You  do  not  yet  know  my  whims  and  caprices,"  she 
said.  "I  never  care  to  enter  those  close  stifling  cabins. 
A  night  on  deck  is  my  greatest  delight." 

"  Then  I  must  find  you  a  comfortable  sheltered  seat, 
and  plenty  of  wraps,"  he  returned. 

"  Thank  you ;  my  maid  will  do  that." 

Seeing  him  draw  back  with  a  saddened  face,  she  added : 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  85 

"  Perhaps  you  will  manage  it  better,  though.  I  shall 
be  glad  if  you  will  attend  to  it." 

He  looked  delighted,  and  hastened  to  obey. 

"  He  is  really  so  kind,"  said  Lady  lanthe,  as  though 
excusing  her  scant  courtesy  to  herself,  ' '  that  I  cannot  be 
angry." 

He  made  for  her  a  pleasant  little  nook,  sheltered  from 
the  wind ;  and  she  was  compelled  to  own  that  she  was 
very  comfortable. 

"  You  are  quite  sure,"  he  said,  "  that  you  will  not  take 
cold?" 

"  No,  there  is  no  fear." 

And  then  he  stood  for  a  few  moments  thoughtfully  by 
her  side. 

"  lanthe,"  he  said,  "  if,  in  our  strange  life  there  is  to 
be  any  degree  of  comfort,  we  must  be  perfectly  straight- 
forward. It  will  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  sit  here 
with  you  ;  but  I  am  afraid  of  presuming.  If  you  would 
rather  be  alone,  tell  me  so." 

"  I  would  rather  be  alone,"  she  said. 

If  he  felt  any  pain  at  her  words,  he  would  not  betray 
it  to  her.  He  held  out  his  hand,  and  then,  remembering 
his  agreement,  drew  it  suddenly  back  again. 

"  Good  night,"  he  said — "  good  night,  and  Heaven 
bless  you  ! " 

She  had  forgotten  all  about  him  before  he  had  been 
five  minutes  away  from  her.  He  crossed  to  the  other  side 
of  the  vessel,  and  sat  where  he  could  see  her  without  be- 
ing seen. 

The  first  few  days  of  their  travels  passed  happily 
enough.  The  novelty  charmed  her,  his  kindness  and  at- 


86  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

tention  pleased  her — indeed  his  attention  was  something 
•wonderful.  He  never  seemed  to  forget  her — her  least 
wish,  her  slightest  desire,  her  faintest  caprice,  were  all 
gratified  before  she  had  hardly  expressed  them.  He 
never  spoke  to  her  of  love — he  never  spoke  to  her  of  him- 
self—but he  surrounded  her  with  an  atmosphere  of  af- 
fectionate care  which  soon  became  indispensable  to  her. 
She  began  to  rely  upon  him  for  the  comfort  of  her  life— 
but,  as  for  loving  him,  the  idea  did  not  even  occur  to 
her. 

They  went  wherever  she  expressed  a  wish  to  go.  She 
saw  Rome,  Venice,  Naples,  Palermo.  She  revelled  in  the 
new  and  entrancing  life.  Her  husband,  too,  when  she 
could  forget  that  he  was  her  husband— when  she  could 
forget  that  he  was  a  plebeian— was  a  most  intelligent 
companion.  His  store  of  information  bewildered  her— 
dazzled  her ;  he  seemed  to  know  the  history  of  every 
picture  and  statue,  of  every  place  of  interest ;  he  knew 
something  of  the  lives  of  all  great  men. 

They  went  one  lovely  morning  in  June  to  visit  an  old 
picture-gallery  in  Venice.  Amongst  the  paintings  was 
one  entitled  "  An  Unhappy  Marriage."  There  was  a 
young  wife  with  a  sweet,  fair,  patient  face,  and  fair  wav- 
ing hair— a  sad  face,  never  forgotten  when  once  seen, 
with  the  most  plaintive  expression — watching  the  sleep 
of  her  husband,  a  young  man,  handsome,  dissipated, 
with  flushed  countenance  and  tangled  haif.  There  was 
a  world  of  regret  in  the  woman's  eyes,  a  history  in  the 
sweet,  hopeless  face.  Herman  drew  Lady  lanthe  away. 
"  Do  not  look  at  it,"  he  said,  hastily—"  I  do  not  like 
it." 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  87 

"But  I  do,"  she  opposed.     "  Why  do  you  not  ?  " 

"It  is  too  painful  a  reminder,"  he  replied;  and  she 
laughed. 

' '  It  does  not  concern  us — ours  is  not  a  case  of  disap- 
pointment. I  do  not  think  we  are  disappointed  in  each 
other ;  ours  was  not  so  much  a  marriage  you  know  as  a 
mere  business  arrangement.  Why  should  the  picture  af- 
fect you?  " 

He  turned  from  her  with  a  sudden  moan,  as  though 
his  pain  was  greater  than  he  could  bear. 

He  tried  to  make  himself  happy.  If  he  had  loved  her 
less  passionately,  it  would  not  have  been  so  difficult.  He 
tried  to  engross  himself  in  the  scenes  around  him;  he 
purchased  all  that  was  most  beautiful  and  that  he  fancied 
she  would  like — cameos,  laces,  bijouterie  of  all  kinds. 
If  she  admired  a  statue,  and  he  could  not  obtain  the 
original,  he  would  order  a  copy ;  it  was  the  same  with 
pictures.  Whatever  she  admired — if  money  could  pur- 
chase it  for  her,  she  had  it.  He  sent  home  such  hosts  of 
treasures  to  Croombe  that  the  Earl  was  startled. 

They  met  many  English  people  abroad.  Lady  lanthe 
had  quite  ceased  to  shun  such  meetings.  She  had  ceased 
to  remember  that  there  was  any  peculiarity  in  her  rela- 
tions with  her  husband.  She  was  generally  quite  unem- 
barrassed with  him,  so  that  the  presence  of  strangers 
made  little  or  no  difference  to  them.  No  remark  was 
ever  made  about  them — no  one  ever  said  they  were  at- 
tached to  each  other — no  one  ever  said  the  reverse ;  they 
were  universally  admired  and  courted.  And,  as  yet,  Her- 
man was  full  of  hope.  She  would  not  always  be  so  cold 
to  him,  so  proud  and  stately.  Sh«  would  be  compelled 


88  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

to  love  him,  and  however  hard  it  might  be,  he  would 
wait  with  patience  until  that  day.  He  longed  at  times 
for  a  kind  word  from  her — he  longed  to  hear  her  voice 
soften  into  that  sweet  and  tender  cadence  that  she  used 
always  in  speaking  of  her  father.  It  would  come — it 
must  come  !  Such  love  as  his  must  win  its  reward  sooner 
or  later.  A  day  would  come  when  she  would  draw  near 
to  him,  saying,  "  I  love  you,  husband,  at  last ;  "  and  in 
that  dream  he  tried  to  find  peace  and  content. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THEY  were  coming  home — the  wedding  tour  had  been 
unduly  prolonged.  Lady  lanthe  had  seemed  to  be 
enjoying  herself  so  thoroughly  that  Herman  did  not  care 
to  put  the  longing  of  his  heart  into  words,  and  ask  her 
to  go  home.  She  would  never  care  for  him  abroad ;  he 
consoled  himself  by  thinking  that  she  was  too  much  ab- 
sorbed and  engrossed  in  the  novelties  around  her.  But 
at  home,  at  Croombe,  where  his  love  would  surround 
her,  where  she  would  have  leisure  to  think  of  him,  there 
she  would  learn  to  love  him.  Still,  he  himself  would 
never  have  suggested  their  returning.  To  his  great  de- 
light, when  the  month  of  July  came,  with  its  dazzling 
glory  of  flowers  and  its  fervid  heats,  she  told  her  hus- 
band that  it  was  time  they  thought  of  going  home. 

"  We  shall  find  Croombe  at  its  fairest, ' '  she  said.    ' '  It 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  89 

is  always  beautiful,  but  it  is  most  so  when  the  fulness  of 
summer  is  over  it."  And  then  she  added,  gracefully, 
"It  is  to  be  your  home,  I  remember.  I  hope  that  you 
will  like  it."  She  did  not  add,  "  and  that  you  will  be 
happy  there."  He  noticed  the  omission,  but  he  had  de- 
termined to  be  hopeful. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  in  July  when  they  once  more 
reached  the  Abbey.  It  seemed  to  lanthe  that  there  had 
never  been  such  sunshine — never  such  a  glow  of  color, 
such  warm,  sweet  fragrance. 

"  Italy  was  beautiful,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  "  but 
in  the  whole  world  there  is  no  place  like  home." 

"  Do  you  like  Croombe  so  much?  "  he  asked,  gently. 

The  tears  shone  in  her  proud  eyes  as  she  answered : 

"  Yes,  I  love  it  inexpressibly.'* 

And  then  he  thought  to  himself  that,  whether  she 
ever  loved  him  or  not,  he  would  be  content,  for  he  had 
given  her  this  great  happiness — he  had  preserved  her 
home.  He  would  have  done  twice  as  much  to  hear  such 
words  from  the  lips  he  loved. 

It  was  a  pretty  home-coming.  There  were  arches  of 
evergreens  and  flowers,  each  one  surmounted  with  the 
word  "  Welcome."  There  were  pretty  colored  flags  and 
bowers  with  inscriptions  of  welcome — there  was  a  crowd 
of  tenantry  and  children. 

Lady  lanthe's  beautiful  face  flushed ;  it  was  so  strangely 
sweet  to  her,  this  welcome  from  those  she  had  lived 
amongst  and  loved.  The  sun  was  setting  over  the  trees, 
the  rich  rippling  foliage  was  gently  stirred  by  the  sweet 
south  wind,  the  air  was  balmy  with  the  fragrance  of 


90  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

flowers :  it  seemed  as  though  even  nature  had  donned  her 
fairest  robe  to  bid  them  welcome. 

The  old  Earl  was  in  the  grand  entrance-hall,  and  Lady 
lanthe  looked  at  him  with  incredulous  delight.  His 
eyes  were  bright,  the  worn,  haggard  look  of  pain  had 
left  his  face,  he  was  more  erect,  more  stately.  She  had 
not  seen  him  looking  so  well  for  years.  With  a  joyful 
cry  she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"Papa,"  she  said,  delightedly,  "it  does  my  heart 
good  to  see  you  again." 

The  Earl  looked  at  his  daughter,  and  was  delighted 
with  her  improved  appearance,  her  increased  beauty;  he 
could  hardly  take  his  eyes  from  the  radiant  face.  Sud- 
denly he  remembered  Herman,  waiting  for  his  welcome ! 

"  My  daughter,"  he  said  with  graceful  courtesy,  "we 
must  not  forget  to  whom  we  owe  all  our  happiness.  My 
son,  a  hundred  welcomes  home  !  " 

Then  he  watched  Lady  lanthe  as  she  went  over  the 
beautiful  house.  The  improvements  made  therein  during 
her  absence  had  all  been  suggested  by  her  husband,  and 
superintended  by  the  Earl. 

Lord  Carre  had  had  but  little  to  spend  on  Croombe ; 
Herman,  however,  had  had  new  stables  erected,  and, 
what  was  better,  filled  with  some  of  the  finest  horses  in 
the  county.  A  new  wing  had  been  added  to  the  Abbey, 
and  it  had  been  fitted  up  with  every  modern  appliance. 
There  were  new  conservatories,  and  the  grounds  had 
been  put  into  perfect  order.  The  interior  of  the  house 
had  been  almost  entirely  refurnished. 

In  the  picture-gallery  Lady  lanthe  saw  again  the  pic- 
tures and  statues  that  had  gladdened  her  eyes  in  other 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED  91 

lands.  Thither  had  been  brought,  as  though  by  magic, 
all  that  she  had  most  admired.  All  was  owing  to  the 
untiring  love,  the  unwearied  devotion,  the  generosity  of 
the  husband  who  had  been  forbidden  to  speak  even  one 
affectionate  word  to  her.  He  was  not  even  by  her  side 
now — he  would  not  detract  from  his  munificence  by 
seeming  to  want  her  thanks.  It  was  the  Earl  who 
showed  her  everything. 

"What  do  we  not  owe  him,  lanthe?"  he  said  at 
length. 

She  did  not  love  her  husband  ;  she  looked  down  upon 
him  from  the  serene  height  of  her  nobility.  But  she  was 
not  deficient  in  gratitude. 

"We  owe  him  thanks,"  she  said  at  last,  "  and  he 
shall  have  them." 

She  went  at  once  in  search  of  him,  and  found  him 
alone  in  the  pretty  morning-room,  where  she  had  given 
her  contemptuous  assent  to  being  his  wife. 

Was  he  thinking  of  that,  she  wondered — of  her  scorn- 
ful, bitter  words — her  unutterable  disdain?  Her  face 
flushed  crimson  as  she  remembered  it  all. 

She  went  up  to  him — he  was  standing  leaning  against 
the  open  glass  door — and  it  struck  her  with  sudden  pain 
how  lonely  he  looked  amidst  all  this  happiness  of  their 
home  coming ;  there  was  something  of  sad  depression  in 
his  face,  something  of  sorrow  and  pain  in  his  eyes. 

He  looked  up  as  she  entered,  so  evidently  in  search  of 
him,  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  light  and  hope  on  his  face. 
Was  it  going  to  be  realized,  this  dream  of  his  ?  Had  she 
come  to  say,  "  I  love  you,  husband — I  love  you  at  last  ?  " 


92  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

She  was  coming  to  him,  with  a  smile  on  her  face  sweeter 
than  any  he  had  ever  seen  there  before. 

"Herman,"  she  said,  "I  come  to  thank  you.  You 
are  very  good — very  generous.  I  thank  you  with  my 
whole  heart  and  soul  for  all  your  kindness ;  you  have 
made  us  very  happy." 

He  had  advanced  eagerly  to  meet  her,  his  heart  on  his 
lips,  his  soul  in  his  eyes,  his  hands  outstretched ;  but, 
when  he  heard  what  she  had  to  say,  hope  died  within 
him,  his  eager  hands  fell. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  are  pleased,"  he  said,  quietly, 
"  and  that  you  approve  of  what  I  have  done." 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  wonder ;  his  voice  was  full  of 
pain,  of  disappointment,  and  the  look  on  his  face  was 
pitiful  to  see.  What  had  he  expected  ?  What  did  he 
think  she  had  come  to  say  ?  She  drew  back  with  a  crim- 
son flush,  and  then  tried  to  la  ugh  her  unspoken  questions 
away. 

"  I  have  run  away  from  papa  to  find  and  thank  you. 
You  have  guessed  exactly  what  would  please  me.  You 
understand  that  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  ?  "- 

"I  understand,  Lady  lanthe,"  he  said,  gravely;  and 
then  silence  fell  over  them. 

"  I  will  go  back  to  papa,"  she  said,  presently.  "  Will 
you  come  with  me  ?  He  is  so  pleased  to  show  me  all  the 
marvelous  changes." 

' '  I  think  you  will  enjoy  yourself  better  in  my  absence," 
he  replied. 

"  We  dine  at  eight,"  said  Lady  lanthe,  as  she  slowly 
walked  away. 

He  had  kept  to  the  very  letter  of  the  agreement ;  he 


WEDDED  AND  PASTED.  93 

had  not  whispered  one  affectionate  word.  She  would 
have  been  very  angry  had  he  done  so.  But  she  did  wish 
that  he  had  not  looked  so  lonely — that  he  had  not  spoken 
with  such  pain  in  his  voice ;  for,  after  all,  they  owed  so 
much  to  him — he  was  so  good  and  so  kind. 

The  met  again  at  dinner.  Lady  lanthe  had  much  to 
tell  the  Earl  of  the  people  she  had  met,  the  places  she 
had  seen,  the  pleasures,  gayeties,  and  amusements  of  the 
trip.  She  was  all  brightness  and  animation.  After  din- 
ner her  husband  said  to  her  : 

"  I  have  been  delighted  to  listen  to  your  conversation. 
I  am  so  pleased  that  you  enjoyed  the  tour." 

"Did  you  not  know  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  replied.  "You  forget  that  you  never  told 
me  whether  you  were  enjoying  yourself  or  not — in  fact, 
I  do  not  know  that  you  ever  spoke  to  me  of  yourself." 

"Then  I  will  make  amends  now,"  she  said,  with  a 
smile.  "  I  did  enjoy  my  tour  very  much  indeed." 

"  It  was  not  spoilt  by  the  fact  of  my  being  with  you?  " 
he  interrogated. 

"No,  it  was  not,"  she  replied. 

"  In  fact,  that  was  a  matter  of  indifference — a  circum- 
stance hardly  worth  thought? " 

"  If  you  will  press  for  the  truth,"  she  said  proudly,  "  it 
was  a  matter  of  indifference ;  yet  I  thank  you  for  all  your 
kind  attention.  But  we  need  not  bandy  words  with 
each  other  on  this  first  night  of  our  return.  If  all  busi- 
ness arrangements  went  on  as  satisfactorily  as  ours,  it 
would  be  a  happier  world." 

He  drew  a  step  nearer  to  her  and  looked  into  her  face. 

"  lanthe/'  he  said,  sadly,  "  you  like  to  humiliate  me. 


84  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

You  like  to  call  our  marriage  a  business  arrangement. 
In  all  matters  of  business  the  benefit  is  supposed  to  be 
equal.  Will  you  think  for  one  minute,  and  then  tell  me 
what  I  have  gained  ?  " 

The  words  struck  her.  He  had  given  them  his  for- 
tune, his  name,  his  service.  What  had  he  gained  ? 

"You  made  the  compact  of  your  own  free  will,"  she 
said. 

' '  I  grant  it,  but  it  is  hardly  fair  to  speak  of  it  as 
business,  Lady  lanthe." 

"Then,"  she  said,  soothingly,  "if  the  expression 
does  not  please  you,  if  it  hurts  you,  I  promise  never  to 
use  it  again." 

It  was  the  first  little  concession  that  she  had  made  him, 
and  he  was  delighted.  He  forgot  her  pride,  her  hauteur, 
the  hard  words  that  had  preceded  it.  He  remembered 
only  that  for  the  first  time  she  had  considerably  given  in 
to  his  wish,  and  his  delight  knew  no  bounds.  ' 

"She  will  be  mine  yet!"  he  thought.  "  She  will 
love  me,  and  tell  me  so.  This  is  the  beginning  of  the 
end." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

HONORS  fell  thickly  on  Herman  not  many  weeks  after 
his  return.  The  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  county  had 
died,  and  with  general  approval  he  was  choseu  to  take 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  95 

his  place.  There  was  a  rumor  of  a  general  election  ; 
and  it  was  certain  that  if  he  chose  he  could  be  returned 
by  an  overwhelming  majority.  There  had  never  been  a 
more  popular  man  in  the  county.  The  neighbors,  rich 
and  poor,  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  calling  him 
"  Squire."  There  was  no  one  so  popular,  so  beloved, 
so  courted,  so  esteemed,  as  the  "Squire  "  and  his  lady. 
In  his  public  life  he  was  happy,  but  in  his  home  life  he 
was  compelled  to  own  himself  a  bitterly  disappointed 
man. 

They  had  been  at  home  for  some  time,  and  he  seemed 
further  than  ever  from  winning  the  least  sign  of  love  or 
affection  from  his  proud,  beautiful  young  wife.  Every 
day  gave  him  greater  proof  of  her  complete  indifference, 
of  the  cruel  distance  that  parted  them. 

One  morning  toward  the  end  of  September,  husband 
and  wife  were  together  in  the  morning-room.  Herman 
had  a  liking  for  that  room — whether  it  was  because  of 
the  interview  that  had  taken  place  there  he  could  not 
tell.  On  this  morning  he  sat  reading  his  newspaper, 
while/ Lady  lanthe  went  to  attend  to  her  favorite  flowers 
in  the  adjoining  conservatory.  She  had  with  her  a  little 
basket  for  the  dead  leaves,  and  a  pair  of  scissors.  Her- 
man watched  in  silence  the  beautiful  face  bent  over  the 
iragrant  blossoms.  Suddenly  he  was  startled  by  an  ex- 
clamation of  sharp  pain  from  Lady  lanthe.  He  went 
instantly  to  see  what  was  the  cause.  She  held  up  her 
hand. 

"  See  what  I  have  done  !  "  she  cried. 

He  saw  a  small  deep  wound  in  one  of  her  fingers. 

"  What  has  caused  that  ?  "  he  asked. 


96  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

"I  was  removing  a  stubborn  thorn,"  she  replied, 
"  and  I  have  cut  my  finger." 

He  saw  that  her  lips  had  grown  pale,  for  blood  was 
flowing  freely  from  the  wound. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  some  court-plaster,"  he  replied.     "It  is  not  a 
severe  wound;  this  will  check  the  bleeding." 

He  produced  his  pocket-book,  took  out  a  little 
packet  containing  court-plaster,  and  carefully  cut  off  a 
slip.  He  held  it  out  to  her. 

"  I  cannot  put  it  on  myself,"  she  said. 

"  Shall  I  call  your  maid,  -then,  Lady  lanthe?  " 

She  looked  at  him  in  supreme  wonder. 

"  No ;  why  not  put  it  on  yourself,  Herman  ?  " 

"  You  forget  the  contract  net  to  touch  your  hand." 

"  Never  mind  the  contract  in  a  case  of  this  kind," 
she  rejoined  quickly. 

And  for  the  second  time  in  his  life  he  held  Lady 
lanthe's  hand  in  his  own. 

Gently  and  tenderly  he  bound  up  the  pretty  wounded 
finger. 

"  Does  it  pain  you  now?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  much,"  she  replied.     "  Thank  you." 

But  for  a  minute  longer  he  held  her  hand,  looking  at 
it  intently. 

"  My  wife's  hand,"  he  said — ."  the  hand  thatholdsmy 
heart,  my  love,  my  life — the  hand  that  has  never  yet 
lain  willingly  in  mine.  May  I  kiss  it,  lanthe,  before  I 
let  it  go?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  her  face  flushing,  "if  it  pleases 
you." 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  97 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  it  with  such  love,  such  pas- 
sion, that  the  kiss  burned  her  like  flame ;  then,  without 
another  word,  he  quitted  the  room. 

"  What  a  sad  thing  it  is  that  he  is  of  low  birth  !  " 
said  Lady  Ian  the  to  herself.  "  There  is  something 
really  pleasant  about  him." 

All  day  the  memory  of  that  kiss  was  with  her.  The 
hand  he  had  caressed  seemed  to  burn  her.  More  than 
once  she  caught  herself  remembering  how  his  eyes  had 
shone  and  his  lips  had  trembled — what  passion  and  what 
pain  there  had  been  in  his  face.  She  began  to  reflect 
deeply.  Her  life  was  one  round  of  self-indulgence,  of 
gayety,  flattery,  and  pleasure  ;  while  a  noble  heart  lay 
under  her  feet — a  heart  that  she  crushed  at  every  step. 

One  morning  it  seemed  to  her  that  something  unusual 
had  occurred ;  the  servants  looked  tired,  and  some  of 
them  were  absent.  Her  maid  told  her  that  during  the 
night  the  Earl  had  been  seized  with  a  sudden  fainting- 
fit ;  they  had  hastily  summoned  the  Squire,  whose  first 
care  was  that  Lady  lanthe  should  not  be  disturbed.  He 
had  sent  off  at  once  for  the  doctor,  and  had  sat  up  him- 
self during  the  whole  night.  The  Earl  was  better — al- 
most well,  in  fact ;  the  attack  had  been  but  trifling. 
Yet  the  Squire  had  never  left  him,  but  had  tended  him 
with  the  love  and  devotion  of  a  son,  his  only  anxiety 
being  that  his  wife  should  be  spared  all  care  and  trouble. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Carre  now?  "  she  asked. 

They  told  her  he  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  couch  in 

the  morning-room.     She  went  in  quietly.     There  was  a 

little  stand  by  his  s"ide,  and  on  it  stobd  her  favorite 

lemon-plant.     She  broke  off  a  spray  as  she  stood  watch- 

7 


98  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

ing  him,  and  braised  it  in  her  white  fingers.  How  pale 
and  worn  he  looked  !  How  handsome  his  face  was  in 
its  repose — the  lips  so  firm,  the  rich  clustering  hair  fall- 
ing over  the  broad  brow.  Had  he  been  of  her  order, 
she  would  have  called  him  princely.  One  arm  was 
thrown  above  his  head  ;  and  she  stood  silently  watching 
aim.  He  did  not  look  like  a  happy  man.  There  were 
great  lines  of  pain  on  his  face  which  told  of  many  weary 
hours. 

Not  happy  ?  Her  heart  smote  her  as  she  looked  at 
him.  How  he  loved  her  !  How  he  had  lavished  most 
royal  gifts  upon  her !  He  had  given  her  his  wealth, 
name,  love,  everything — had  sunk  his  very  identity — 
and  all  for  love  of  her.  What  had  he  gained  ?  Not  a 
loving  look  or  a  kindly  word. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  she  murmured  to  herself.  She  bent 
over  him,  with  more  tenderness  in  her  heart  than  she 
had  ever  felt  before.  She  heard  him  murmur  in  his 
sleep  : 

"  lanthe,  my  love,  my  wife — so  cold,  so  cruel !  " 

A  deep  sigh  that  was  almost  a  moan  came  from  his 
lips.  She  bent  still  lower,  and  the  bruised  lemon-spray 
fell  from  her  hands  on  to  his  breast. 

"Poor  fellow!  "  she  murmured  again,  and  with  a 
sudden  impulse  she  touched  his  hair.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  voluntarily  gone  near  him  or  touched  him. 
Was  it  Paradise  opening  to  him  in  his  dreams  ? 

Suddenly  he  stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  she  hastened 
away.  Her  face  burned  at  the  thought  that  he  should 
wake  and^find  her  there.  She  quitted  the  room,  and  he 
opened  his  eyes  with  a  confused  sense  of  her  presence 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  99 

He  saw  the  folds  of  her  white  dress  as  she  closed  the 
door  behind,  and  he  found  the  lemon  spray  on  his 
breast. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  YEAR  and  more  had  passed  since  the  Squire  and 
Lady  lanthe  had  returned  home.  Everything  had  fallen 
into  its  usual  routine,  so  that  it  seemed  difficult  to  imag- 
ine that  any  dark  trouble  had  loomed  over  the  Abbey. 
The  only  perceptible  difference  was  the  presence  of  the 
Squire  and  the  great  increase  in  luxury.  By  this  time 
the  whole  county  had  some  knowledge  of  the  terms  on 
which  the  Squire  and  Lady  lanthe  lived.  The  general 
decision  was  that  Lady  lanthe  had  married  for  money, 
and  the  Squire  for  the  sake  of  the  aristocratic  union. 

When  the  Squire  and  his  wife  went  up  to  London  for 
the  season,  Lady  lanthe  reigned  there — the  leading  belle 
of  the  day.  Their  house  was  the  most  popular  in  the 
great  city  :  they  were  the  leaders  almost  everywhere. 
It  was  some  little  comfort  to  Herman  to  find  that,  al- 
though she  did  not  love  him — did  not  care  for  him — she 
was  equally  indifferent  to  every  one  else.  Her  proud, 
serene  calm  seemed  never  to  be  broken. 

Then  he  was  returned  a  member  for  the  county ;  and 
it  struck  him  that  she  was  pleased  at  his  success.  He 
flung  himself  heart  and  soul  into  his  new  duties — he  tried 


100  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

to  fill  his  life  with  them.  But  there  was  always  the  same 
dreary  sense  of  desolation,  the  same  heartache,  and  the 
same  longing  for  love.  Then,  when  the  season  was  ended, 
they  returned  to  Croombe.  He  began  to  abandon  hope 
after  that.  His  wife's  well-bred  indifference  became  un- 
bearable. 

Everything  had  fallen  into  its  usual  routine.  Lady 
lanthe  spent  her  time  with  the  Earl,  and  in  receiving 
and  returning  hospitality,  or  amusing  herself  with  books, 
music,  and  flowers.  She  was  always  kind  to  her  hus- 
band in  a  certain  indifferent  fashion.  She  deferred  on 
every  occasion  to  his  authority.  He  was  treated  by  the 
Earl's  wish,  as  master  of  the  house.  His  position  was  a 
magnificent  one,  but  his  heart  ached  for  love,  and  no 
love  came.  The  woman  whom  he  worshipped  so  pas- 
sionately would  never  care  for  him.  She  had  no  heart ; 
she  was  too  proud  to  love,  too  haughty  to  care  for  any- 
thing but  her  own  self-indulgence  and  her  name. 

It  came  to  him  with  a  sickening  sense  of  certainty  at 
last.  He  did  not  regret  what  he  had  done.  For  her 
sake  he  would  have  done  it  all  over  again.  But  his  man- 
hood rose  now  in  hot  rebellion  against  his  fate.  She 
could  live  happily  enough  without  him,  but  he  could  live 
no  longer  by  her  side.  He  had  suffered  enough.  She 
was  welcome,  doubly  welcome,  to  all  he  had  in  the 
world,  but  he  could  no  longer  bear  the  pain  and  torment 
of  her  presence.  His  resolve  was  taken ;  he  must  go. 
They  were  wedded,  it  was  true,  but  they  must  part.  He 
had  come  to  the  limit  of  his  patience.  If  she  needed 
him  he  would  remain  ;  but  she  did  not.  His  absence 
could  make  no  possible  difference  to  her  life. 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  101 

There  was  no  need  for  any  scandal,  for  any  explana- 
tion— no  need  that  any  human  being  should  know  the 
truth  as  to  why  he  had  gone.  He  would  go  to  America. 
He  had  money  invested  there,  and  he  could  say  business 
called  him  thither ;  the  best  thing  for  which  he  could 
hope  and  pray  was  that  Heaven  in  its  mercy  would  let 
him  die  there.  One  morning  he  sent  for  lanthe — he  was 
in  his  favorite  room.  She  smiled  when  she  saw  him 
there. 

"You  like  this  room,  Herman,"  she  said. 

"I  had  my  first  hope  of  love  here,"  he  answered. 
"  lanthe,  I  have  sent  for  you  here  to  speak  to  you — 
here,  where  without  love,  you  promised  to  be  my  wife, 
and  I,  trusting  in  the  might  of  my  own  love  to  win 
yours,  took  upon  myself  a  task  that  was  superhuman." 

The  gravity  of  his  voice  and  manner  awed  her.  She 
sat  down  and  looked  at  him  wistfully.  Surely  every- 
thing was  going  c^i  well.  What  did  he  want  ? 

"lanthe,"  continued  the  grave,  passionate  voice, 
"have  I  not  done  all  that  man  could  do  to  win  your 
love?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  " I  own  that  you  have." 

"  Yet  you  no  more  love  me  now  than  you  did  on  the 
day  that  I  first  spoke  to  you  here." 

' '  There  can  be  no  question  of  love  between  you  and 
me,"  she  observed,  haughtily.  "  Why  are  you  not  con- 
tent to  live  as  hitherto? " 

"Why  am  I  not  content?"  he  cried,  passionately. 
"Because  I  am  not  made  of  marble  or  ice — because  I 
have  a  living  human  heart  that  longs  for  love,  a  soul  that 


102  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

cries  out  against  my  cruel  life,  my  cruel  solitude — be- 
cause I  can  bear  my  life  no  longer  !  " 

"  Why,  what  is  wrong?  "  she  asked,  startled  by  the 
passion  in  his  voice. 

"  Ask  me,  rather,  what  is  right  ?  I  love  you  so  en- 
tirely, so  devotedly,  that  I  must  win  your  love  in  return, 
or  I  must  go  from  you.  Can  you  place  your  hand  in 
mine,  and  say,  '  I  will  try  to  love  you,  Herman  ?  '  Even 
that  will  content  me." 

Her  beautiful  face  had  grown  strangely  pale.  She 
drew  back. 

"No,"  she  replied,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  cannot." 

He  laughed  aloud,  and  she  shrank,  scared  and  fright- 
ened, from  the  sound. 

"  No,  you  cannot ;  this  plebeian  hand  of  mine  must 
not  touch  the  dainty  fingers  of  Lady  Carre  !  ' ' 

"  Herman,"  she  interposed,  "  you  frighten  me.  I  do 
not  understand  you  in  this  mood." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  growing  calmer  at  the 
sound  of  her  voice,  "  I  am  at  times  frightened  at  my- 
self. I  believe  that  my  great  misery  is  driving  me  mad. 
I  will  try  to  say  to  you  in  sad  and  sober  earnestness  what 
I  mean.  I  am  very  unhappy.  I  would  bear  it  all  if 
there  were  any  chance  of  ever  winning  your  love ;  but 
there  is  none,  and  I  cannot  remain  here  any  longer.  I 
have  borne  more  than  a  man  should  bear,  because  I  have 
always  thought  time  would  win  me  your  love.  Now  I 
see  that  it  never  will." 

"  But  where  will  you  go  ?  What  will  you  do  ?  "  she 
asked,  gently. 

"  I  will  do  nothing  that  shall  attract  scandal  or  gossip 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  103 

— nothing  that  shall  annoy  you,  or  any  one  else.  I  have 
money  invested  in  America — I  will  go  and  look  after  it. 
It  will  be  known  that  I  have  gone  on  business,  and  noth- 
ing more  will  be  said." 

"  Shall  you  remain  in  America  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  hope  Heaven  will  be  merciful  and  let  me  die  there ; 
then  you  will  be  free." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  want  to  be  free,"  she  said. 

"  Then  will  you  love  me,  lanthe?  " 

"  No,  no.  Oh,  Herman,  be  sensible  and  let  us  re- 
main as  we  are." 

"  No,  I  will  be  a  slave  no  longer,  Lady  lanthe.  One 
word  from  you  and  I  will  remain.  lanthe,  you  see  how 
madly  I  love  you." 

"  Then  why  do  you  go?  "  she  asked. 

"Because,  though  I  can  bear  my  great  sorrow  away 
from  you,  I  cannot  bear  to  live  any  longer  in  your  pres- 
ence without  your  love.  Do  you  think  that  I  am  stone 
and  marble — that  I  never  wish  you  to  kiss  me?  What 
would  I  not  give,  lanthe,  for  one  voluntary  kiss  from 
your  lips  ?  But  I  shall  never  have  it — never  !  Dq  you 
think  I  never  long  to  clasp  your  hands  in  mine — to  hear 
your  voice  whisper  sweet  words  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  replied. 

"But  I  know,  lanthe.  And  I  can  bear  the  torture  no 
longer.  There  is  one  thought  that  has  haunted  me  ever 
since  I  have  been  here.  Can  you  guess  what  it  is?  " 

"No,"  she  said. 

"I  will  tell  you.  It  is  that  you  would  come  to  me 
with  love  shining  in  your  eyes — that  you  would  clasp 
your  arms  round  my  neck,  and  say,  '  My  husband,  I 


104  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

have  learned  to  love  you  at  last !  "*     Will  such  imagina- 
tion ever  become  reality,  lanthe  ?  rt 

"  No,"  she  replied,  faintly,  "  I  do  not  think  it  will." 
"  Then  I  must  say,  Heaven  bless  you,  wife.     You  and 
I  must  part ;  and  for  your  sake,  lanthe,  I  pray  that  we 
may  never  meet  again." 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

His  departure  made  some  little  stir.  The  papers  all 
agree  that  it  was  sad  to  lose  the  promising  young  mem- 
ber, just  when  the  country  required  his  services.  The 
Earl  was  loud  in  his  lamentations — indeed,  when  Her- 
man told  him  that  he  contemplated  a  journey  to  Amer- 
ica, the  old  man  broke  down,  and  prayed  him,  with 
tears,  not  to  go  away. 

"  You  are  to  me  like  my  own  child,"  he  said.  "  If  I 
had  had  a  son  of  my  own  I  should  not  have  loved  him 
better.  Why  go  so  far  away  ?  ' ' 

Herman,  deeply  touched  by  such  affection,  answered 
something  about  money ;  but  Lord  Carre  grew  impa- 
tient. 

"  Money !  "  he  cried.  "  What  does  such  money  mat- 
ter to  you?  If  you  lost  all  that  there  is  in  America  be- 
ionging  to  you,  it  would  not  matter." 

But   Herman  gravely  told  him  it  must  be — he  was 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  105 

compelled  to  go.  In  his  distress  the  Earl  sent  for  his 
daughter. 

"  lanthe,"  he  pleaded,  "  can  you  not  ask  Herman  to 
stay  ?  I  cannot  bear  that  he  should  leave  us ;  ask  him  to 
Stay." 

She  knew  that  one  word  from  her  would  make  him 
give  up  all  thought  of  the  journey ;  but  that  one  word 
she  would  not  speak.  Still,  her  father's  sorrow  opened 
her  eyes  as  nothing  else  could  have  done,  and  made  her 
think  more  of  her  husband  than  she  had  thought  before. 
He  comforted  the  Earl ;  but  to  himself  he  said  it  was 
more  than  probable  that  he  should  never  see  Croombe 
Abbey  again. 

The  morning  came  when  he  stood  before  his  wife,  his 
preparations  all  made,  his  farewells  all  spoken. 

"  I  am  here  to  say  good-by,  lanthe." 

She  looked  up  in  amazement. 

"  Are  you  going  to-day — now?    I  did  not  know  it." 

"Yes,  I  am  going.  I  leave  my  heart  and  my  love 
with  you,  lanthe.  I  pray  Heaven  to  watch  over  you." 

She  held  out  her  hand  silently.  She  was  nearer  car- 
ing for  him  than  she  had  ever  been. 

"lanthe,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  am  looking  for 
the  last  time,  in  the  eyes  that  have  always  held  happiness 
for  me.  I  forget  the  pride,  the  scorn,  the  anguish,  and 
my  heart  goes  out  to  you  in  farewell — farewell,  my  lost 
love — my  idolized  wife  !  Will  you  kiss  me  once — only 
once?  I  shall  never  suffer  a  greater  bitterness  than  this. 
Will  you  kiss  me,  lanthe  ?  " 

She  turned  her  beautiful  face  to  his — her  perfumed 
hair  brushed  his  cheek.  She  touched  him  with  her 


106  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

sweet  fresh  lips.  She  saw  him  grow  white  as  death,  and 
then,  with  a  passionate  cry,  hurry  away.  Then  she  was 
standing  alone,  with  a  strange  fire  creeping  slowly 
through  her  veins,  and  a  strange  tempest  breaking  over 
her  heart — wondering  what  had  happened. 

Two  days  afterward  a  packet  was  placed  in  her  hand. 
She  recognized  his  writing,  and  opened  the  missive  at 
once.  Hot  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  gazed.  It  was  a 
deed  of  gift,  making  over  to  her  the  greater  part  of  his 
fortune.  He  had  reserved  but  a  small  share  for  himself 
— and  even  that  was  to  be  hers  at  his  death.  His  wealth 
was  made  over  to  her  without  the  least  reservation.  It 
was  plain  that  he  thought  that,  when  freed  from  him  by 
the  death  he  sought,  she  would  marry  in  frer  own  rank  ; 
but  there  was  not  one  word  of  this  in  the  deed  of  gift. 

She  was  touched  more  deeply  than  she  cared  to  own. 
Who  could  say,  after  such  love  and  sublime  devotion, 
that  noble  souls  belonged  alone  to  men  of  noble  birth  ? 
There  had  never  been  a  more  noble  soul  than  this. 

What  had  he  not  done  for  love  of  her  ?  He  had 
rescued  the  name  she  bore  from  shame  and  disgrace — he 
had  saved  her  father  from  something  more  than  ruin — 
he  had  restored  their  family  fortunes  with  the  greatest 
splendor — he  had  taken  her  name,  and  had  added  a  new 
lustre  to  it — he  had  devoted  himself  to  her  service  and 
to  her  father's  and  he  had  crowned  his  gifts  by  the  lav- 
ish one  of  his  whole  fortune.  Had  there  ever  been  love 
like  his  ? 

Plebeian  !  She  blushed  to  think  how  often  the  word 
had  been  applied  to  him.  He  might  be  lowly  born,  but 
his  was  the  soul  of  a  prince.  Lady  lanthe,  with  all  her 


WEDDED  AND  PASTED.  107 

pride,  was  too  noble,  too  grand  in  character,  not  to  rec- 
ognize the  true  nobility  he  had  displayed. 

He  was  gone.  She  would  have  liked  to  see  him  once 
more — to  hold  out  her  hands  to  him  in  all  frankness,  and 
say : 

"  I  have  misjudged  you — misprized  you.  I  have 
learned  to  recognize  in  you,  at  last,  a  nobility  greater  far 
than  the  mere  accident  of  birth  confers." 

She  would  have  said  it,  but  words  were  useless  now. 
She  took  the  deed  to  her  father,  who  read  it  through,  and 
then  said,  sadly : 

"  I  do  not  like  this,  lanthe — it  seems  to  me  that  he 
never  expects  to  return.  My  daughter,  I  am  an  old  man, 
and  my  experience  of  this  world  has  been  a  large  one. 
I  tell  you  that  a  nobler  man  than  this  husband  of  yours 
has  never  lived." 

She  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  believe  it."  Come 
what  might,  she  could  despise  him  no  more — he  had 
proved  himself  infinitely  her  superior. 

He  was  gone.  His  rooms  were  closed;  there  were 
few  traces  at  Croombe  Abbey  of  the  man  who  had 
rescued  it  from  ruin.  But  he  lived  in  the  hearts  of  the 
tenants.  The  servants  spoke  of  him  in  whispers  to  each 
other,  saying  that  their  beautiful  young  mistress  had 
been  very  proud,  but  that  she  would  repent  her  pride 
now  that  it  had  driven  him  away.  When  Lady  lanthe 
went  amongst  the  tenantry,  she  wondered  to  find  how 
greatly  he  was  loved.  There  was  nothing  but  lamenta- 
tion about  him. 

He  had  been  gone  three  years.  During  that  time  he 
wrote  often  to  the  Earl,  but  rarely  to  Lady  lanthe.  From 


108  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

every  land  through  which  he  traveled  he  sent  presents  to 
Lord  Carre.  He  seemed  never  to  forget  him ;  but  his 
letters  to  Lady  lanthe  breathed  only  one  idea,  and  that 
was  an  apology  that  he  still  lived. 

Slowly,  but  surely,  she  began  to  miss  him — to  miss  his 
devotion,  the  constant  protection  of  his  presence,  his 
assiduous  attention.  When  she  went  out  now  she  had  no 
loving  escort;  no  strong  loving  hands  were  near;  no  one 
was  present  to  consult  her  every  whim  and  caprice.  If 
she  felt  tired,  there  was  no  one  to  persuade  her  to  rest, 
to  insist  that  she  should  take  care  of  herself,  to  shield 
her  from  every  little  passing  care.  She  missed  the 
strong,  tender,  never-failing  love,  although  she  was  un- 
willing to  own  it. 

It  touched  her,  too,  to  the  very  heart  to  see  how  the 
Earl  missed  him — he  had  become  so  dependent  on  him 
for  much  of  the  comfort  of  his  life.  Herman  was  so 
prompt  in  answering  his  letters,  so  skillful  in  superintend- 
ing his  business  affairs,  so  kind  in  selecting  the  news- 
paper articles  he  thought  would  best  please  him,  and 
reading  them  to  him.  The  Earl  had  often  told  him 
laughingly  that  he  was  eyes  and  ears  to  him.  Now  all 
that  was  missing.  When  Lord  Carre  had  cared  to  walk» 
Herman's  strong  arm  had  been  ready  to  guide  his  feeble 
steps ;  he  had  been  devoted  as  a  son — and  all  because  he 
loved  Lady  lanthe.  Moreover,  he  had  detected  that  all 
was  not  quite  as  it  should  be.  The  property  of  the 
estate  had  never  been  so  well  cared  for  as  when  he  had 
the  management  of  it. 

Slowly  but  surely  all  these  things  came  home  to  Lady 
lanthe,  and  were  as  the  beginning  of  the  end.  She  had 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  109 

learned  to  miss  him  more  than  she  had  learned  to  despise 
him.  She  learned  that  nobility  of  character  belongs  to 
no  estate,  but  is  admirable  in  all — that  to  be  nobly  born 
is  not  to  have  a  monopoly  of  every  good  gift  under 
heaven — that  vice  can  be  hereditary  as  well  as  virtue — 
that  virtue  can  exist  without  either  rank  or  wealth.  All 
these  lessons  she  learned  slowly,  and  learned  too  late. 

In  the  long  gallery  hung  a  portrait  of  Herman.  The 
Earl  had  insisted  on  having  it  there ;  and  more  than  once 
a  day  Lady  lanthe  would  go  to  look  at  it — to  look  in 
silence  at  the  face  that  for  love  of  her  had  grown  so  thin 
and  worn — to  look  at  that  pictured  semblance  of  the 
man  whom  her  pride  and  comtempt  had  driven  into  exile 
that  he  hoped  would  end  in  death. 

It  was  a  beautiful  face ;  its  beauty  grew  upon  her.  She 
wondered  that  she  could  ever  have  undervalued  it — 
have  thought  it  plain  or  plebeian.  No  peer  of  the  realm 
had  a  more  noble  face.  Ah,  how  full  of  pain  and  sorrow 
it  had  been  when  she  had  seen  it  last !  How  those  eyes 
had  saddened  and  those  lips  trembled  !  How  cruel  she 
had  been  to  him  ! 

So  time  passed ;  and  then  Wyndham  Carre  paid  his 
long  delayed  visit  to  Croombe  Abbey.  She  had  despised 
her  husband  because  he  was  a  commoner ;  she  had  re- 
fused to  believe  that  great  merit  of  true  nobility  could 
belong  to  a  man  not  nobly  born ;  she  had  treated  him 
with  coldness  and  contempt.  Now  she  was  to  behold  a 
man  whose  chief  merit  lay  in  what  she  valued  so  highly 
— noble  birth.  He  prided  himself  upon  it ;  he  looked 
upon  his  inferiors  in  station  as  people  belonging  to  an- 
other world ;  he  treated  them  with  insolent  contempt. 


110  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

He  talked  of  his  order  until  Lady  lanthe' s  face  grew 
crimson ;  it  was  as  though  she  saw  herself  in  a  glass. 

Wyndham  Carre  spoke  with  a  lisp — and  he  never  for- 
got himself  or  his  own  good  looks.  Yet  he  was  a  brave 
officer,  and  a  good  soldier.  One  of  the  first  things  he 
did  at  Croombe  was  to  injure  a  child  as  he  was  galloping 
along  the  high-road.  True,  it  was  an  accident,  but  he 
had  flung  gold  at  the  mother's  feet  when  she  came  to 
pick  up  the  little  one,  and  had  uttered  no  kindly  word  to 
her.  When  spoken  to  afterward  about  it,  he  said  that 
people  of  that  kind  had  little  feeling  ;  they  had  no  wounds 
so  deep  but  that  money  could  heal  them — gold  was  their 
sovereign  remedy. 

Lady  lanthe  contrasted  such  behavior  with  the  tender 
charity  that  had  characterized  Herman  in  all  his  dealings 
with  the  poor.  Which  was  worthier  of  admiration — the 
man  of  birth  or  the  commoner  ? 

Again,  it  never  occurred  to  Wyndham  Carre  to  exert 
himself  to  render  the  least  service  to  the  Earl.  If  Lord 
Carre  expressed  a  wish  for  anything,  the  younger  man 
would,  if  near  the  bell,  ring  it  and  summon  a  servant ; 
if  the  old  Earl  longed  for  the  help  of  a  kindly  arm,  his 
relative  would  raise  his  handsome  eyebrows  and  say  : 

"'Pon  my  honor,  I  regret  that  I  was  not  cut  out  for 
the  domestic  virtues." 

He  was  too  indolent  to  read  aloud,  too  careless  to 
write  letters,  too  indifferent  to  interest  himself  in  matters 
pertaining  to  Croombe ;  and,  again  contrasting  such  self- 
ishness with  the  never-failing  solicitude  of  her  husband, 
Lady  lanthe  asked  herself  which  was  the  nobler  of  the 
two? 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  Ill 

In  the  first  excitement  of  seeing  his  kinsman  again,  the 
Earl  had  confided  to  him  the  story  of  his  difficulties  and 
his  wonderful  rescue.  One  of  the  bitterest  trials  of  Lady 
lanthe's  life  was  to  hear  Wyndham  Carre  sneer  about  it. 
"Our  good  friend  the  tradesman"  was  his  designation 
for  the  man  who  had  done  so  much.  "  Where  did  our 
excellent  friend  the  tradesman  find  this  good  taste  ?  "  he 
would  ask.  And,  when  he  had  heard  the  whole  story  of 
Herman's  generosity,  he  said,  insolently : 

"  It  was  an  impertinent  thing  of  him  to  come  to  the 
rescue  of  a  family  like  ours." 

On  hearing  this  speech,  Lady  lanthe's  face  flamed 
with  indignation,  and  her  heart  beat  with  anger.  She 
turned  to  him  abruptly. 

"You  would  not  have  done  it,"  she  said. 

"  No,  my  dear  lady.  I  confess  to  a  preference  for 
number  one." 

"You  have  five  thousand  pounds,  but  you  would  not 
give  them  to  save  my  father  from  ruin,  would  you?  " 

"  Since  you  press  the  question,  certainly  not,"  he  re- 
plied, with  a  laugh. 

"I  knew  it,"  she  declared;  "and,  if  you  had  found 
that  my  father  had  made  use  of  your  five  thousand 
pounds,  you  would  have  compelled  him  to  repay  it." 

"  I  am  afraid  necessity  would  have  left  me  no  choice. 
We  cannot  all  be  as  munificent  as  our  good  friend  the 
tradesman.  It  is  not  given  to  us  all  to  have  the  privilege 
of  making  money." 

"  The  tradesman,  as  you  choose  to  call  him,  is  a  thou- 
sand times  nobler  than  you  are  !  "  she  cried,  indignantly. 

"My  dear  lanthe,  you  forget  what  you  are  saying," 


112  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

he  said,  raising  his  eyebrows.  "That  kind  of  man  could 
not  be  noble  if  he  tried." 

And  again  she  asked  herself  which  gained  by  contrast — 
the  plebeian  or  her  kinsman? 

She  could  not  help  noticing,  too,  that  the  poor  and  the 
dependent  who  had  so  dearly  loved  and  so  generously 
praised  her  husband  did  not  like  Wyndham  Carre.  He 
had  a  habit  of  treating  his  inferiors  with  insolence,  not 
unmarked  by  contempt.  He  gave  his  orders  to  servants 
with  the  air  of  a  tyrant;  he  scolded  and  stormed  if  things 
did  not  please  him.  He  was  little  loved  in  the  household, 
yet  he  was  nobly  born. 

"When  will  the  Squire  come  back?"  people  began  to 
ask.  He  had  been  gone  three  years  now,  and  in  his  letters 
he  said  no  word  about  returning.  Lady  lanthe  knew  that 
he  would  never  return — that  he  would  remain  in  exile  until 
death  freed  him.  She  for  whose  sake  he  had  exiled  him- 
self— she  whose  pride  had  driven  him  from  home — knew 
why  he  had  gone,  and  knew  also  that  he  would  never 
return.  Yet  it  was  some  time  before  she  owned  to  herself 
that  her  opinions  about  him  were  changing.  That  which 
his  constant  presence,  his  unremitting  love,  his  entire 
devotion,  had  failed  to  excite,  his  absence  and  her  thoughts 
of  him  aroused. 

Then  came  the  time  in  which  she  was  to  experience 
the  gradual  dawning  of  love  in  her  heart.  Wonderful 
news  came  to  Croombe— so  wonderful  that  it  was  difficult 
to  realize  it.  The  silver  mine  was  to  turn  out  an  El  Do- 
rado at  last.  A  clever  and  enterprising  Englishman  had 
examined  it,  and  believed  that  it  would  pay  to  work  it,  and 
his  prognostication  turned  out  to  be  true.  Slowly,  but 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  113 

surely,  the  mine  recovered  itself;  once  more  the  shares 
were  at  a  premium  ;  once  more  the  hapless  shareholders 
began  to  look  for  a  golden  future — and  this  time  the  dream 
was  not  vain. 

"They  tell  me,"  said  Wyndham  Carre  to  the  Earl, 
"that  the  mine  will  shortly  pay  twenty  per  cent.,  and 
will  most  probably  pay  more.  I  wish  my  money  were  in- 
vested in  it." 

Lord  Carre  listened  with  a  shudder.  What  had  hap- 
pened to  that  money  before,  and  where  was  the  man  who 
had  saved  him? 

But  it  was  to  Lady  lanthe  that  Wyndham  spoke  most 
openly. 

"  It  is  like  a  romance,"  he  said — "  first  to  lose  a  for- 
tune and  then  to  regain  it.  Why,  lanthe,  you  will  be  one 
of  the  wealthiest  women  in  England  !  What  a  pity  it  is 
that  you  hampered  yourself  with  that  good  tradesman  of 
yours  !  You  might  have  been  a  duchess." 

"  Perhaps  I  prefer  him  to  a  duke,"  she  rejoined  an- 
grily. 

"Nonsense  !  Of  course,  now  the  thing  is  done,  and 
there  is  no  help  for  it,  you  are  wise  in  making  the  best 
of  it ;  but  it  is  really  a  great  pity  that  you  were  sacrificed 
to  him." 

She  turned  away,  too  indignant  for  words.  How  many 
times  had  she  thought  the  same  thing  ?  Now  to  hear  it 
told  abruptly  in  words  was  torture.  She  went  away  and 
stood  by  the  old  sun-dial  in  the  garden,  thinking  of  him. 
Poor  fellow  ?  All  his  sacrifices  had  been  in  vain.  He 
would  hear  now  that  even  the  fortune  he  had  lavished 
upon  them  was  given  for  nothing — it  was  not  wanted. 

'8 


M4  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

Lady  lanthe  thought  long  and  mournfully  of  him ;  and 
then  she  started  on  finding  her  face  wet  with  tears. 
She,  one  of  the  proudest  women  in  England,  to  weep  for 
the  plebeian  husband  whose  love  she  had  so  completely 
scorned  !  Could  it  be  possible  ?  She  laid  her  face  on  the 
mossy  sun-dial. 

If  she  could  only  see  him — only  see  his  face,  with  his 
passionate  eyes  looking  into  her  own — only  hear  the  voice 
that  had  always  been  so  low  and  gentle  for  her !  If 
she  might  but  see  him  again,  and  tell  him  that  his  dream 
had  come  true — that  she  was  ready  to  clasp  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  say  that  she  loved  him  at  last ! 

Did  she  love  him  ?  Her  face  flushed,  her  heart  beat, 
her  hands  tightened  their  clasp.  Love  him.  Yes  !  For 
he  had  the  soul  of  a  prince,  this  lowly-born  yet  noble 
husband  of  hers.  And  she  loved  him  at  last  with  all  her 
heart.  Should -she  write  and  tell  him  so?  Ah,  no! 
1  uat  was  a  different  matter. 


WEDDED  AND  PASTED.  U& 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THREE  years  had  sped  by,  and  lanthe  had  developed 
into  a  magnificently  beautiful  woman.  Wyndham  Carre 
often  told  her  there  was  no  one  in  England  to  equal  her. 

"It  is  such  a  great  pity,"  he  would  say,  "that  you 
should  be  hampered  with  this  horrible  marriage.  What 
is  he  like,  this  worthy  young  tradesman  who  is  content  to 
leave  one  of  the  loveliest  women  in  England,  while  he 
looks  after  his  money  in  America  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  know  why  he  went  away,"  she  said. 

He  laughed  with  an  air  of  great  amusement. 

"  Upon  my  word,  lanthe,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  that 
you  sent  him  away  yourself  because  you  were  ashamed  of 
him." 

"I  am  not  ashamed  of  him — he  is  the  noblest  man  I 
have  ever  met." 

"Not  now,  perhaps;  but  he  would  never  stay  away 
all  this  time  unless  you  had  ordered  it.  What  is  he  do- 
ing ?  My  leave  of  absence  will  have  expired  before  he 
returns,  so  I  shall  not  see  him." 

"He  will  not  lose  much  by  that,"  retorted  Lady 
lanthe.  "You  will — for  you  might  take  a  lesson  in 
good  manners  from  him  with  great  advantage." 

"  I  shall  begin  to  think  that  I  have  been  mistaken, 
and  that  you  are  in  love  with  our  gopd  friend  after  all." 

"  Should  not  a  wife  be  in  love  with  her  husband  ?  " 
she  asked. 


116  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

« I  suppose  so ;  but  rumor  says  he  failed  to  win  your 

love." 

«•  Then  rumor  speaks  falsely,"  she  said,  angrily. 

And  then  she  thought  bitterly  of  what  she  had  ex- 
posed him  to— of  the  sneers  and  taunts  and  ridicule— 
this  chivalrous  man  who  had  laid  his  heart  at  her  feet. 

But  the  time  was  coming  when  even  the  mocking 
laughter  of  Wyndham  Carre  should  be  hushed,  and  he 
would  speak  of  Herman  without  a  sneer. 

It  was  summer  time,  and  a  letter  came  from  New 
York,  written  by  a  stranger's  hand,  telling  how  Herman 
Carre  lay  sick  unto  death,  and  that  there  was  little  or  no 
hope  for  him.  He  had  wished  that  his  friends  should 
know.  Not  that  he  intended  or  desired  to  disturb  them ; 
they  were  not  to  make  any  attempt  to  see  him  or  send 
to  him— it  would  be  useless,  for  it  would  be  too  late. 
He  had  purposely  refrained  from  sending  his  address, 
so  that  they  might  make  no  vain  search  for  him.  Even 
Wyndham's  sneers  were  hushed  as  he  heard  that  letter 

read. 

There  was  inclosed  a  note  for  Lady  lanthe.  She  took 
it  to  her  own  room— she  could  not  open  it  before  others. 
When  she  had  broken  the  seal  to  her  great  surprise  there 
fell  from  the  note  a  faded  spray  of  lemon-plant.  And 
then  she  read : 

"lanthe,  my  darling  wife— I  dare  to  write  to  tell  you 
once  more  what  is  passing  in  my  heart,  for  I  believe 
that  my  prayers  are  heard,  and  that  I  am  dying  at  last. 
Oh,  lanthe,  once,  only  once  more  let  me  tell  you  how  I 
love  you !  I  have  been  wandering  now  for  several  years, 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  117 

yet  my  heart  beats  at  the  memory  of  your  face,  at  the 
thought  of  you,  at  the  sound  of  your  name,  with  a  love 
as  wild  and  as  fierce  as  ever.  For  at  times  I  utter  your 
name  aloud.  Oh,  my  darling  wife,  you  will  never  know 
how  I  have  loved  you  ! 

"  Looking  back,  I  see  that  I  was  presumptuous.  Be- 
lieve me,  I  loved  you  so  much  that  I  was  blind  to  every- 
thing except  the  one  wild  hope  of  winning  you.  I 
thought  you  would  forget  caste  prejudices — that  time 
would  soften  them — that  my  great  devotion  would  win 
your  affection.  Now  I  see  that  that  hope  was  all  in  vain 
— utterly  vain ;  the  distance  between  us  was  too  great  to 
be  bridged  over — you  could  not  care  for  me,  Ian  the. 
It  was  all  my  fault.  I  reproach  myself  most  bitterly  that 
I  did  not  accede  to  your  request — that  I  did  not,  like  a 
generous  man,  help  Lord  Carre,  and  refrain  from  mak- 
ing your  love  the  reward.  I  was  selfish  to  do  it ;  I  can 
see  it  now.  I  repent  with  a  bitter  repentance.  A 
woman's  love  should  never  be  made  a  reward  for  service 
rendered.  lanthe,  it  was  my  great  love  that  made  me  so 
selfish.  Will  you  forgive  me  !  I  wish  I  had  acted  dif- 
ferently. I  should  at  least  have  had  your  esteem — now 
I  have  nothing. 

"I  have  been  very  unhappy  during  these  three  years 
— unhappy,  because  I  saw  that  my  folly  had  darkened 
your  life.  Oh,  my  wife,  I  pray  to  Heaven  that  you  may 
be  happy  yet — that  when  I  am  gone  you  may  meet  with 
some  one  whom  you  can  love — some  one  who  will  make 
you  happy.  I  pray  that  you  may  retain  but  one  mem- 
ory, and  that  may  be  of  my  great  love.  Forget  all  else 
»— forget  that  I  failed  in  generosity,  forget  that  Iwaspre- 


118  WEDDED  AND  PASTED. 

sumptuous — forget  everything — except  that  I  loved  you 
truly. 

"  lanthe,  I  have  been  happy  once  since  our  fatal  mar- 
riage— only  once — and  then  I  lay,  tired  and  sleeping,  in 
my  favorite  room.  I  thought  that  you  stood  by  me. 
You  bent  over  me — you  touched  the  hair  on  my  brow — you 
filled  my  whole  soul  with  a  sweet  brooding  sense  of  your 
presence.  When  I  opened  my  eyes  I  fancied  that  I  saw  the 
folds  of  your  dress  as  the  door  closed ;  and,  darling,  I 
found  lying  on  my  breast  this  bruised  spray  of  your  fa- 
vorite lemon-plant.  Thinking  you  had  left  it  there,  I 
have  guarded  it  as  my  greatest  treasure  ever  since  ;  and 
now  I  send  it  to  you.  If  kindly  thoughts  of  me  did  rise 
in  your  heart  on  that  day  it  will  recall  them  ;  if  not — if 
indeed  it  was  all  a  dream,  a  fancy — burn  it.  Never 
mind  the  kisses  and  the  tears  that  have  covered  it. 

"  Good -by,  my  sweet  wife — my  lost,  dear  love  !  I 
have  told  them  to  write  to  you  when  I  am  dead." 

Here  the  letter  ended  abruptly,  as  though  the  writer's 
strength  had  suddenly  failed  him.  How  he  loved  her  ! 
She  had  wakened  to  a  sense  of  it  at  last — a  sense  of  his 
worth,  of  his  love,  of  his  loss.  Her  .tears  fell  fast  over 
the  letter,  over  the  faded  lemon-spray.  Oh,  if  it  had 
but  pleased  Heaven  to  let  her  see  him  once  more — to  let 
her  lay  her  head  on  his  breast  and  say,  "  I  love  you,  my 
husband — I  love  you  at  last !  " 

That  could  never  be  now  ;  and  as  she  sat  there,  with 
her  husband's  letter  in  her  hand,  there  came  to  Lady 
lanthe  the  knowledge  that  without  him  she  would  never 
be  happy. 


WEDDED  AND  PASTED.  119 

But  no  letter  came  announcing  his  death.  They  did 
not  hear  again.  They  did  not  know  whether  he  was 
still  ill  or  recovering.  They  knew  nothing,  and  sus- 
pense became  intolerable.  It  told  upon  Lady  lanthe. 
She  grew  thin  and  pale — she  was  always  thinking  of 
him.  The  faded  lemon-spray  had  been  placed  in  a  gold 
locket  and  lay  on  her  breast.  The  time  had  come  when 
every  thought  was  his — when  every  wish,  every  desire 
was  to  see  him  again. 

Summer  and  autumn  passed — no  news  came  from  him. 
The  birds  took  flight  to  summer  climes,  the  flowers 
withered,  the  leaves  fell  from  the  trees,  the  face  of  na- 
ture changed  from  gay  to  grave— winter  came,  and  still 
no  letter  from  him. 

Wyndham  Carre  was  to  return  to  India  in  February. 

"  You  are  anxious,  I  know,  for  news  from  America," 
he  said  to  his  relatives,  "but  it  is  long  since  I  have 
seen  an  English  Christmas ;  let  me  have  one  here  at 
Croombe  Abbey  before  I  go." 

And,  though  the  Earl  was  unhappy,  though  his 
daughter's  heart  was  almost  breaking,  they  yielded  to 
his  wish. 

The  bells  chimed  merrily.  It  was  Christmas-eve. 
There  had  not  been  such  a  fajl  of  snow  for  years.  It 
lay  so  thick  and  so  white  that  the  world  seemed  half 
buried  in  it. 

Croombe  Abbey  was  more  resplendent  than  it  had 
ever  been  before ;  the  interior  showed  naught  but  lux- 
ury and  magnificence.  The  house  was  full  of  happy 
faces.  Lord  Carre  had  spared  nothing  to  gratify  his 


120  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

kinsman's  wish  for  a  happy  Christmas.  He  had  invited 
numerous  guests,  and  the  old  Abbey  walls  resounded 
with  merriment. 

The  only  sad  face  there  was  that  of  his  daughter, 
Lady  lanthe.  The  weeks  of  cruel  suspense  had  worn 
on,  yet  no  news  had  come  from  her  husband.  He  was 
not  dead — of  that  every  one  seemed  sure ;  but  why  did 
he  not  write  ?  Once  a  horrible  idea  came  to  her.  She 
found  herself  wondering  whether  he  fancied  that  she 
would  be  sorry  to  hear  that  he  still  lived. 

On  this  snowy  Christmas  Eve  this  idea  haunted  her ; 
she  was  haunted,  too,  by  the  memory  of  the  Christmas 
Eve,  a  few  short  years  ago,  when  she  was  so  happily  un- 
conscious of  all  care.  The  music  distressed  her,  the 
Christmas  greeting  irritated  her,  the  happy  smiling 
faces  grieved  her.  Where  was  he  who  ought  to  have 
been  master  there  ?  She  went  out,  avay  from  the 
laughter  and  the  song,  away  from  the  happy  hearts  that 
knew  no  care ;  they  were  not  suitable  companions  for 
her — she  who  had  sent  a  noble  soul  into  exile.  She 
went  away,  and  throwing  a  thick  shawl  round  her,  wan- 
dered to  the  conservatory  near  the  morning-room — the 
place  where  her  husband  had  kissed  her  hand,  and  had 
bidden  her  farewell. 

She  stood  there,  gazing  at  the  snow,  watching  the 
stars  in  the  sky,  thinking  of  him  with  unutterable  long- 
ing and  unutterable  love,  when  Lord  Carre  suddenly  en- 
tered. His  manner  was  hurried  and  abrupt — he  looked 
confused  and  unlike  himself. 

"lanthe,"  he  said — "here  alone  on  this  beautiful 
Christmas  Eve ! " 


WEDDED  AND  PARTED.  121 

"Yes,  it  wants  Herman,  papa,  to  enable  me  to  enjoy 
it,"  she  confessed. 

"Ay,  we  want  Herman;"  and  then  he  laughed  a 
perplexed  little  laugh.  "  lanthe,"  he  added,  suddenly, 
"  I  should  like  to  know  if  you  are  strong  enough  to  bear 
a  great  surprise.  Someone  is  waiting  to  see  you." 

Herman  had  entered,  and  was  there,  standing  by  her 
side,  looking  at  her,  with  a  passion  of  love  in  his  eyes, 
with  a  light  in  his  worn  face,  holding  out  his  hands  to 
her. 

"  lanthe,  my  wife  !  lanthe,  my  love  !  "  he  cried. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  a  door  closing,  and  they  were 
alone. 

"  lanthe,  my  darling,"  he  went  on,  "I could  not  die 
until  I  had  seen  you  once  more — until  I  had  heard  from 
your  own  lips  that  you  had  learned  to  think  more  kindly 
of  me.  Oh,  my  darling,  I  sought  death  on  sandy 
deserts,  on  burning  plains,  in  dark  forests,  on  trackless 
seas,  but  my  love  for  you  was  so  great,  so  intense,  it 
kept  me  alive  in  spite  of  myself !  It  made  me  strong 
when  I  would  fain  have  been  weak  ;  it  has  brought  me 
hither  thousands  of  miles,  when  my  own  sense  and  my 
own  fears  tell  me  you  can  have  nothing  to  say  to  me.  I 
am  haunted  by  you  as  man  was  never  haunted." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  lips. 

' '  You  shall  not  say  another  word,  Herman,  until  you 
have  heard  me — until  you  know  what  I  have  to  say.  I 
am  bitterly  sorry  for  all  my  cruelty,  my  coldness,  my 
pride.  I  repent  of  it  all.  I  am,  so  people  say,  exceed- 
ingly proud.  Listen,  and  believe  me,  love.  I  am 
prouder  of  being  your  wife  than  I  am  of  my  title,  my 


122  WEDDED  AND  PARTED. 

ancestry,  and  everything  else.  I  am  proud  because  I 
have  won  the  love  of  one  of  the  noblest  men  in  the 
wide  world.  I  am  proud  that  you  love  me  so  well, 
Herman." 

The  light  of  a  great  joy  dawned  in  his  face. 

"  I  cannot  believe  it,"  he  said.  "  It  cannot  be  true. 
Are  you,  my  wife,  Lady  lanthe,  speaking  so  to  me?  " 

«  Yes — I,  your  wife,  am  asking  you  to  forgive  my 
pride,  my  insolence,  my  folly — to  believe  that  at  last  I 
have  learned  to  distinguish  true  nobility,  that  my  whole 
soul  does  homage  to  you,  that  my  heart  is  yours  for  ever- 
more, that  nothing  but  death  shall  ever  part  us  again." 

And  then,  while  the  Christmas  stars  shone  in  the  sky, 
and  the  Christmas  bells  chimed  merrily,  the  great  de- 
sire of  Herman's  heart  was  granted  to  him.  His  wife 
clasped  her  white  arms  round  his  neck  and  said : 

'*  I  have  learned  to  love  you,  my  husband  at  last !  " 


OLD   CHRISTMAS 

By  WASHINGTON  IRVING 


CHRISTMAS. 

But  is  old,  old,  good  old  Christmas  gone?  Nothing 
but  the  hair  of  his  good,  gray  old  head  and  beard  left? 
Well,  I  will  have  that,  seeing  I  cannot  have  more  of 
him. 

Hue  and  Cry  after  Christmas. 

A  man  might  then  behold 

At  Christmas,  in  each  hall 
Good,  fires  to  curb  the  cold, 

And  meat  for  great  and  small. 
The  neighbors  were  friendly  bidden, 

And  all  had  welcome  true, 
The  poor  from  the  gate  were  not  chidden 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Old  Song. 

Nothing  in  England  exercises  a  more  de- 
lightful spell  over  my  imagination  than  the 
lingerings  of  the  holiday  customs  and  rural 
games  of  former  times.  They  recall  the  pic- 
tures my  fancy  used  to  draw  in  the  May  morn- 
ing of  life,  when  as  yet  I  only  knew  the  world 
through  books,  and  believed  it  to  be  all  that 
poets  had  painted  it;  and  they  bring  with  them 
the  flavor  of  those  honest  days  of  yore,  in 
which,  perhaps,  with  equal  fallacy,  I  am  apt 
to  think  the  world  was  more  homebred,  social, 
and  joyous  than  at  present.  I  regret  to  say 
that  they  are  daily  growing  more  and  more 
faint,  being  gradually  worn  away  by  time, 


4  CHRISTMAS. 

but  still  more  obliterated  by  modern  fashion. 
They  resemble  those  picturesque  morsels  of 
Gothic  architecture  which  we  see  crumbling  in 
various  parts  of  the  country,  partly  dilapi- 
dated by  the  waste  of  ages  and  partly  lost  in 
the  additions  and  alterations  of  latter  days. 
Poetry,  however,  clings  with  cherishing  fond- 
ness about  the  rural  game  and  holiday  revel 
from  which  it  has  derived  so  many  of  its 
themes,  as  the  ivy  winds  its  rich  foliage  about 
the  Gothic  arch  and  mouldering  tower,  grate- 
fully repaying  their  support  by  clasping  to- 
gether their  tottering  remains,  and,  as  it  were, 
embalming  them  in  verdure. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,  however,  that  of 
Christmas  awakens  the  strongest  and  most 
heartfelt  associations.  There  is  a  tone  of 
solemn  and  sacred  feeling  that  blends  with  our 
conviviality,  and  lifts  the  spirit  to  a  state  of 
hallowed  and  elevated  enjoyment.  The  ser- 
vices of  the  Church  about  this  season  are  ex- 
tremely tender  and  inspiring.  They  dwell  on 
the  beautiful  story  of  the  origin  of  our  faith 
and  the  pastoral  scenes  that  accompanied  its 
announcement.  They  gradually  increase  in 
fervor  and  pathos  during  the  season  of  Advent, 
until  they  break  forth  in  full  jubilee  on  the 
morning  that  brought  peace  and  good-will  to 
men.  I  do  not  know  of  a  grander  effect  of 
music  on  the  moral  feelings  than  to  hear  the 
full  choir  and  the  pealing  organ  performing  a 
Christmas  anthem  in  a  cathedral,  and  filling 
every  part  of  the  vast  pile  with  triumphant 
harmony. 


CHRISTMAS.  5 

It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also,  derived 
from  days  of  yore,  that  this  festival,  which 
commemorates  the  announcement  of  the 
religion  of  peace  and  love,  has  been  made  the 
season  for  gathering  together  of  family  con- 
nections, and  drawing  closer  again  those  bands 
of  kindred  hearts  which  the  cares  and  pleas- 
ures and  sorrows  of  the  world  are  continually 
operating  to  cast  loose;  of  calling  back  the 
children  of  a  family  who  have  launched  forth 
in  life  and  wandered  wildly  asunder,  once  more 
to  assemble  about  the  paternal  hearth,  that 
rallying-place  of  the  affections,  there  to  grow 
young  and  loving  again  among  the  endearing 
mementos  of  childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the 
year  that  gives  a  charm  to  the  festivity  of 
Christmas.  At  other  times  we  derive  a  great 
portion  of  our  pleasures  from  the  mere 
beauties  of  Nature.  Our  feelings  sally  forth 
and  dissipate  themselves  over  the  sunny  land- 
scape, and  we  "live  abroad  and  everywhere." 

The  song  of  the  bird,  the  murmur  of  the 
stream,  the  breathing  fragrance  of  spring,  the 
soft  voluptuousness  of  summer,  the  golden 
pomp  of  autumn,  earth  with  its  mantle  of  re- 
freshing green,  and  heaven  with  its  deep  de- 
licious blue  and  its  cloudy  magnificence, — all 
fill  us  with  mute  but  exquisite  delight,  and  we 
revel  in  the  luxury  of  mere  sensation.  But  in 
the  depth  of  winter,  when  Nature  lies  de- 
spoiled of  every  charm  and  wrapped  in  her 
shroud  of  sheeted  snow,  we  turn  for  our  grati- 
ficat#ms  to  moral  sources.  The  dreariness 


6  CHRISTMAS. 

and  desolation  of  the  landscape,  the  short 
gloomy  days  and  darksome  nights,  Awhile  they 
circumscribe  our  wanderings,  shut  in  our  feel- 
ings also  from  rambling  abroad,  and  make  us 
more  keenly  disposed  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
social  circle.  Our  thoughts  are  more  concen- 
trated; our  friendly  sympathies  more  aroused. 
We1  feel  more  sensibly  the  charm  of  each 
other's  society,  and  are  brought  more  closely 
together  by  dependence  on  each  other  for  en- 
joyment. Heart  calleth  unto  heart,  and  we 
draw  our  pleasures  from  the  deep  wells  of  lov- 
ing-kindness which  lie  in  the  quiet  recesses  of 
our  bosoms,  and  which,  when  resorted  to, 
furnish  forth  the  pure  element  of  domestic 
felicity. 

The  pitchy  gloom  without  makes  the  heart 
dilate  on  entering  the  room  filled  with  the  glow 
and  warmth  of  the  evening  fire.  The  ruddy 
blaze  diffuses  an  artificial  summer  and  sunshine 
through  the  room,  and  lights  up  each  counte- 
nance in  a  kindlier  welcome.  Where  does  the 
honest  face  of  hospitality  expand  into  a 
broader  and  more  cordial  smile,  where  is  the 
shy  glance  of  love  more  sweetly  eloquent, 
than  by  the  winter  fireside?  and  as  the  hollow 
blast  of  wintry  winds  rushes  through  the  hall, 
claps  the  distant  door,  whistles  about  the  case- 
ment, and  rumbles  down  the  chimney,  what 
can  be  more  grateful  than  that  feeling  of 
sober  and  sheltered  security  with  which  we 
look  round  upon  the  comfortable  chamber  and 
the  scene  of  domestic  hilarity? 

The  English,  from  the  great  prevalence  of 


CHRISTMAS.  7 

rural  habit  throughout  every  class  Of  society, 
have  always  been  fond  of  those  festivals  and 
holidays,  which  agreeably  interrupt  the  still- 
ness of  country  life,  and  they  were,  in  former 
days,  particularly  observant  of  the  religious 
and  social  rites  of  Christmas.  It  is  inspiring, 
to  read  even  the  dry  details  which  some  anti- 
quaries have  given  of  the  quaint  humors,  the 
burlesque  pageants,  the  complete  abandon- 
ment to  mirth  and  good-fellowship  with  which 
this  festival  was  celebrated.  It  seemed  to 
throw  open  every  door  and  unlock  every 
heart.  It  brought  the  peasant  and  the  peer 
together,  and  blended  all  ranks  in  one  warm, 
generous  flow  of  joy  and  kindness.  The  old 
halls  of  castles  and  manor-houses  resounded 
with  the  harp  and  the  Christmas  carol,  and 
their  ample  boards  groaned  under  the  weight 
of 'hospitality.  Even  the  poorest  cottage  wel- 
comed the  festive  season  with  green  decora- 
tions of  bay  and  holly — the  cheerful  fire 
glanced  its  rays  through  the  lattice,  inviting 
the  passengers  to  raise  the  latch  and  join  the 
gossip  knot  huddled  round  th»  hearth  beguil- 
ing the  long  evening  with  legendary  jokes  and 
oft-told  Christmas  tales. 

One  of  the  least  pleasing  effects  of  modern 
refinement  is  the  havoc  it  has  made  among  the 
hearty  old  holiday  customs.  It  has  completely 
taken  off  the  sharp  touchings  and  spirited  re- 
liefs of  these  embellishments  of  life,  and  has 
worn  down  society  into  a  more  smooth  and  pol- 
ished, but  certainly  a  less  characteristic  surface. 
Many  of  the  games  and  ceremonials  of  Christ- 


8  CHRISTMAS. 

mas  have  entirely  disappeared,  and,  like  the 
sherds  sack  of  old  Falstaff,  are  become  mat- 
ters of  speculation  and  dispute  among  com- 
mentators. They  flourished  in  times  full  of 
spirit  and  lustihood,  when  men  enjoyed  life 
roughly,  but  heartily  and  vigorously — times 
wild  and  picturesque,  which  have  furnished 
poetry  with  its  richest  materials  and  the 
drama  with  its  most  attractive  variety  of 
characters  and  manners.  The  world  has  be- 
come more  worldly.  There  is  more  of  dissi- 
pation, and  less  of  enjoyment.  Pleasure  has 
expanded  into  a  broader,  but  a  shallower 
stream,  and  has  forsaken  many  of  those  deep 
and  quiet  channels  where  it  flowed  sweetly 
through  the  calm  bosom  of  domestic  life.  So- 
ciety has  acquired  a  more  enlightened  and  ele- 
gant tone,  but  it  has  lost  many  of  its  strong 
local  peculiarities,  its  homebred  feelings,  its 
honest  fireside  delights.  The  traditionary  cus- 
toms of  golden-hearted  antiquity,  its  feudal 
hospitalities,  and  lordly  wassailings,  have 
passed  away  with  the  baronial  castles  and 
stately  manor-houses  in  which  they  were  cele- 
brated. They  comported  with  the  shadowy 
hall,  the  great  oaken  gallery,  and  the  tapes- 
tried parlor,  but  are  unfitted  to  the  light  showy 
saloons  and  gay  drawing-rooms  of  the  modern 
villa. 

Shorn,  however,  as  it  is,  of  its  ancient  and 
festive  honors,  Christmas  is  still  a  period  of 
delightful  excitement  in  England.  It  is  grat- 
ifying to  see  that  home-feeling  completely 
aroused  which  holds  so  powerful  a  place  in 


CHRISTMAS.  9 

every  English  bosom.  The  preparations  mak- 
ing on  every  side  for  the  social  board  that  is 
again  to  unite  friends  and  kindred ;  the  pres- 
ents of  good  cheer  passing  and  repassing,  those 
tokens  of  regard  and  quickeners  of  kind  feel- 
ings ;  the  evergreens  distributed  about  houses 
and  churches,  emblems  of  peace  and  gladness, 
— all  these  have  the  most  pleasing  effect  in 
producing  fond  associations  and  kindling 
benevolent  sympathies.  Even  the  sound  of 
the  Waits,  rude  as  may  be  their  minstrelsy, 
breaks  upon  the  mid-watches  of  a  winter  night 
with  the  effect  of  perfect  harmony.  As  I  have 
been  awakened  by  them  in  that  still  and 
solemn  hour  "when  deep  sleep  falleth  upon 
man,"  I  have  listened  with  a  hushed  delight, 
and,  connecting  them  with  the  sacred  and  joy- 
ous occasion,  have  almost  fancied  them  into 
another  celestial  choir  announcing  peace  and 
good-will  to  mankind. 

How  delightfully  the  imagination,  when 
wrought  upon  by  these  moral  influences, turns 
everything  to  melody  and  beauty!  The  very 
crowing  of  the  cock,  heard  sometimes  in  the 
profound  repose  of  the  country,  "telling  the 
.night-watches  to  his  feathery  dames,"  was 
thought  by  the  common  people  to  announce 
the  approach  of  this  sacred  festival. 

"Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Savior's  birth  is  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long ; 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome — then  no  planets  strike, 
No  fairy  takes,  no  witch  hath  power  to  charm, 
So  halluw'd  and  so  gracious  is  the  time." 


10  CHRISTMAS. 

Amidst  the  general  call  to  happiness,  the  bus- 
tle of  the  spirits,  and  stir  of  the  affections 
which  prevail  at  this  period  what  bosom  can 
remain  insensible?  It  is,  indeed,  the  season 
of  regenerated  feeling — the  season  for  kindling 
not  merely  the  fire  of  hospitality  in  the  hall, 
but  the  genial  flame  of  charity  in  the  heart. 

The  scene  of  early  love  again  rises  green  to 
memory  beyond  the  sterile  waste  of  years; 
and  the  idea  of  home,  fraught  with  the  frag- 
rance of  home-dwelling  joys,  reanimates  the 
drooping  spirit,  as  the  Arabian  breeze  will 
sometimes  waft  the  freshness  of  the  distant 
fields  to  the  weary  pilgrim  of  the  desert. 

Stranger  and  sojourner  as  I  am  in  the  land, 
though  for  me  no  social  hearth  may  blaze,  no 
hospitable  roof  throw  open  its  doors,  nor  the 
warm  grasp  of  friendship  welcome  me  at  the 
threshold,  yet  I  feel  the  influence  of  the 
season  beaming  into  my  soul  from  the  happy 
looks  of  those  around  me.  Surely  happiness 
is  reflective,  like  the  light  ,of  heaven,  and 
every  countenance,  bright  with  smiles  and 
glowing  with  innocent  enjoyment,  is  a  mirror 
transmitting  to  others  the  rays  of  a  supreme 
and  ever-shining  benevolence.  He  who  can 
turn  churlishly  away  from  contemplating 
the  felicity  of  his  fellow-beings,  and  can  sit 
down  darkling  and  repining  in  his  loneliness 
when  all  around  is  joyful,  may  have  his  mo- 
ments of  strong  excitement  and  selfish  gratifi- 
cation, but  he  wants  the  genial  and  social 
sympathies  which  constitute  the  charm  of  a 
merry  Christmas. 


THE  STAGE  COACH. 

Omne  bene 

Sine  pcena 
Tempua  est  ludendi. 

Venit  bora 

Absque  mora 
Libros  deponendi. 

—Old  Holiday  School-Song. 

In  the  preceding-  paper  I  have  made  some 
general  observations  on  the  Christmas  festiv- 
ities of  England,  and  am  tempted  to  illustrate 
them  by  some  anecdotes  of  a  Christmas  passed 
in  the  country ;  in  perusing  which  I  would  most 
courteously  invite  my  reader  to  lay  aside  the 
austerity  of  wisdom,  and  to  put  on  that  gen- 
uine holiday  spirit  which  is  tolerant  of  folly 
and  anxious  only  for  amusement. 

In  the  course  of  a  December  tour  in  York- 
shire, I  rode  for  a  long  distance  in  one  of  the 
public  coaches  on  the  day  preceding  Christmas. 
The  coach  was  crowded,  both  inside  and  out, 
with  passengers  who,  by  their  talk,  seemed 
principally  bound  to  the  mansions  of  relations 
or  friends  to  eat  the  Christmas  dinner.  It 
was  loaded  also  with  hampers  of  game  and 
baskets  and  boxes  of  delicacies,  <and  hares  hung 
dangling  their  long  ears  about  the  coachman's 
box,  presents  from  distant  friends  for  the 
impending  feast.  I  had  three  fine  rosy-cheeked 

11 


12  THE  STAGE  COACH. 

school-boys  for  my  fellow-passengers  inside, 
full  of  the  buxom  health  and  manly  spirit 
which  I  have  observed  in  the  children  of  this 
country.  They  were  returning  home  for  the 
holidays  in  high  glee,  and  promising  them- 
selves a  world  of  enjoyment.  It  was  delightful 
to  hear  the  gigantic  plans  of  the  little  rogues, 
and  the  impracticable  feats  they  were  to  per- 
form during  their  six  weeks'  emancipation  from 
the  abhorred  thraldom  of  book,  birch,  and  ped- 
agogue. They  were  full  of  anticipations  of  the 
meeting  with  the  family  and  household,  down 
to  the  very  cat  and  dog,  and  of  the  joy  they 
were  to  give  their  little  sisters  by  the  presents 
with  which  their  pockets  were  crammed;  but 
the  meeting  to  which  they  seemed  to  look  for- 
ward with  the  greatest  impatience  was  with 
Bantam,  which  I  found  to  be  a  pony,  and, 
according  to  their  talk,  possessed  of  more  vir- 
tues than  any  steed  since  the  days  of  Bu- 
cephalus. How  he  could  trot!  how  he  could 
run !  and  then  such  leaps  as  he  would  take ! — 
there  was  not  a  hedge  in  the  whole  country 
that  he  could  not  clear. 

They  were  under  the  particular  guardianship 
of  the  coachman,  to  whom,  whenever  an  oppor- 
tunity presented,  they  addressed  a  host  of 
questions,  and  pronounced  him  one  of  the  best 
fellows  in  the  world.  Indeed,  I  could  not  but 
notice  the  more  than  ordinary  air  of  bustle  and 
importance  of  the  coachman,  who  wore  his  hat 
a  little  on  one  side  and  had  a  large  bunch  of 
Christmas  greens  stuck  in  the  buttonhole  of  his 
coat.  He  is  always  a  personage  full  of  mighty 


THE  STAGE  COACH.  13 

care  and  business,  but  he  is  particularly  so  dur- 
ing this  season,  having  so  many  commissions 
to  execute  in  consequence  of  the  great  inter- 
change of  presents.  And  here,  perhaps,  it 
may  not  be  unacceptable  to  my  untraveled 
readers  to  have  a  sketch  that  may  serve  as  a 
general  representation  of  this  very  numerous 
and  important  class  of  functionaries,  who  have 
a  dress,  a  manner,  a  language,  an  air  peculiar 
to  themselves  and  prevalent  throughout  the 
fraternity;  so  that  whenever  an  Eng- 
lish stage-coachman  may  be  seen  he  cannot  be 
mistaken  for  one  of  any  other  craft  or  mystery. 

He  has  commonly  abroad,  full  face,  curiously 
mottled  with  red,  as  if  the  blood  had  been 
forced  by  hard  feeding  into  every  vessel  of  the 
skin;  he  is  swelled  into  jolly  dimensions  by 
frequent  potations  of  malt  liquors,  and  his  bulk 
is  still  further  increased  by  a  multiplicity  of 
coats,  in  which  he  is  buried  like  a  cauliflower, 
the  upper  one  reaching  to  his  heels.  He  wears 
a  broad-brimmed,  low-crowned  hat;  a  huge  roll 
of  colored  handkerchief  about  his  neck,  know- 
ingly knotted  and  tucked  in  at  the  bosom ;  and 
has  in  summer-time  a  large  bouquet  of  flowers 
in  his  buttonhole,  the  present,  most  probably, 
of  some  enamored  country  lass.  His  waistcoat 
is  commonly  of  some  bright  color,  striped,  and 
his  small-clothes  extend  far  below  the  knees, 
to  meet  a  pair  of  jockey  boots  which  reach  about 
halfway  up  his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much 
precision;  he  has  a  pride  in  having  his  clothes 
of  excellent  materials,  and,  notwithstanding 


14  THE  STAGE  COACH. 

the  seeming  grossness  of  his  appearance,  there 
is  still  discernible  that  neatness  and  propriety 
of  person  which  is  almost  inherent  in  an  Eng- 
lishman. He  enjoys  great  consequence  and 
consideration  along  the  road;  has  frequent 
conferences  with  the  village  housewives,  who 
look  upon  him  as  a  man  of  great  trust  and 
dependence;  and  he  seems  to  have  a  good 
understanding  with  every  bright-eyed  country 
lass.  The  moment  he  arrives  where  the  horses 
are  to  be  changed,  he  throws  down  the  reins 
with  something  of  an  air  and  abandons  the 
cattle  to  the  care  of  the  ostler,  his  duty  being 
merely  to  drive  from  one  stage  to  another. 
When  off  the  box  his  hands  are  thrust  into  the 
pockets  of  his  great  coat,  and  he  rolls  about 
the  inn-yard  with  an  air  of  the  most  absolute 
lordliness.  Here  he  is  generally  surrounded 
by  an  admiring  throng  of  ostlers,  stable-boys, 
shoeblacks,  and  those  nameless  hangers-on 
that  infest  inns  and  taverns,  and  run  errands 
and  do  all  kinds  of  odd  jobs  for  the  privilege  of 
battening  on  the  drippings  of  the  kitchen  and 
the  leakage  of  the  tap-room.  These  all  look 
up  to  him  as  to  an  oracle,  treasure  up  his  cant 
phrases,  echo  his  opinions  about  horses  and 
other  topics  of  jockey  lore,  and,  above  all, 
endeavor  to  imitate  his  air  and  carriage.  Every 
ragarrmffin  that  has  a  coat  to  his  back  thrusts 
his  hands  in  the  pockets,  rolls  in  his  gait,  talks 
slang,  and  is  an  embryo  Coach  ey. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  owing  to  the  pleasing 
serenity  that  reigned  in  my  own  mind  that  I 
fancied  I  saw  cheerfulness  in  every  counte- 


THE  STAGE  COACH.  15 

nance  throughout  the  journey.  A  stage-coach, 
however,  carries  animation  always  with  it,  and 
puts  the  world  in  motion  as  it  whirls  along. 
The  horn,  sounded  at  the  entrance  of  the  vil- 
lage, produces  a  general  bustle.  Some  hasten 
forth  to  meet  friends ;  some  with  bundles  and 
bandboxes  to  secure  places,  and  in  the  hurry 
of  the  moment  can  hardly  take  leave  of  the 
group  that  accompanies  them.  In  the  mean- 
time the  coachman  has  a  world  of  small  com- 
missions to  execute.  Sometimes  he  delivers 
a  hare  or  pheasant;  sometimes  jerks  a  small 
parcel  or  newspaper  to  the  door  of  a  public 
house ;  and  sometimes,  with  knowing  leer  and 
words  of  sly  import,  hands  to  some  half-blush- 
ing, half-laughing  housemaid  and  odd-shaped 
billet-doux  from  some  rustic  admirer.  As  the 
coach  rattles  through  the  village  every  one 
runs  to  the  window,  and  you  have  glances  on 
every  side  of  fresh  country  faces  and  blooming 
giggling  girls.  At  the  corners  are  assembled 
juntos  of  village  idlers  and  wise  men,  who  take 
their  stations  there  for  the  important  purpose 
of  seeing  company  pass ;  but  the  sagest  knot 
is  generally  at  the  blacksmith's,  to  whom  the 
passing  of  the  coach  is  an  event  fruitful  of  much 
speculation.  The  smith,  with  the  horse's  heel 
in  his  lap,  pauses  as  the  vehicle  whirls  by ;  the 
cyclops  round  the  anvil  suspend  their  ringing 
hammers  and  suffer  the  iron  to  grow  cool ;  and 
the  sooty  spectre  in  brown  paper  cap  laboring 
at  the  bellows  leans  on  the  handle  for  a 
moment,  and  permits  the  asthmetic  engine  to 
heave  a  long-drawn  sigh,  while  he  glares 


16  THE  STAGE  COACH. 

through  the  murky  smoke  and  sulphurous 
gleams  of  the  smithy. 

Perhaps  the  impending  holiday  might  have 
given  a  more  than  usual  animation  to  the  coun- 
try, for  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  everybody  was  in 
good  looks  and  good  spirits.  Game,  poultry, 
and  other  luxuries  of  the  table  were  in  brisk 
circulation  in  the  villages;  the  grocers', 
butchers',  and  fruiters'  shops  were  thronged 
with  customers.  The  housewives  were  stirring 
briskly  about,  putting  their  dwellings  in  order, 
and  the  glossy  branches  of  holly  with  their 
bright-red  berries  began  to  appear  at  the  win- 
dows. The  scene  brought  to  mind  an  old 
writer's  account  of  Christmas  preparation: 
4 'Now  capons  and  hens,  besides  turkeys,  geese, 
and  ducks,  with  beef  and  mutton,  must  all  die, 
for  in  twelve  days  a  multitude  of  people  will 
not  be  fed  with  a  little.  Now  plums  and 
spice,  sugar  and  honey,  square  it  among  pies 
and  broth.  Now  or  never  must  music  be  in 
tune,  for  the  youth  must  dance  and  sing  to  get 
them  a  heat,  while  the  aged  sit  by  the  fire. 
The  country  maid  leaves  half  her  market,  and 
must  be  sent  again  if  she  forgets  a  pack  of 
cards  on  Christmas  Eve.  Great  is  the  conten- 
tion of  holly  and  ivy  whether  master  or  dame 
wears  the  breeches.  Dice  and  cards  benefit  the 
butler;  and  if  the  cook  do  not  lack  wit,  he  will 
sweetly  lick  his  fingers. 

I  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  luxurious  medi- 
tation by  a  shout  from  my  little  traveling  com- 
panions. They  had  been  looking  out  of  the 
coach- windows  for  the  last  few  miles,  recogniz- 


THE  STAGE  COACH.  17 

ing  every  tree  and  cottage  as  they  approached 
home,  and  now  there  was  a  general  burst  of 
joy.  "There's  John!  and  there's  old  Carlo! 
and  there's  Bantam!"  cried  the  happy  little 
rogues,  clapping  their  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  lane  there  was  an  old  sober- 
looking  servant  in  livery  waiting  for  them ;  he 
was  accompanied  by  a  superannuated  pointer 
and  by  the  redoubtable  Bantam,  a  little  old  rat 
of  a  pony  with  a  shaggy  mane  and  long  rusty 
tail,  who  stood  dozing  quietly  by  the  roadside, 
little  dreaming  of  the  bustling  times  that 
awaited  him. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which 
the  little  fellows  leaped  about  the  steady  old 
footman  and  hugged  the  pointer,  who  wriggled 
his  whole  body  for  joy.  But  Bantam  was  the 
great  object  of  interest;  all  wanted  to  mount 
at  once,  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that 
John  arranged  that  they  should  ride  by  turns 
and  the  eldest  should  ride  first. 

Off  they  set  at  last,  one  on  the  pony,  with 
the  dog  bounding  and  barking  before  him,  and 
the  others  holding  John's  hands,  both  talking 
at  once  and  overpowering  him  with  questions 
about  home  and  with  school  anecdotes.  I 
looked  after  them  with  a  feeling  in  which  I  do 
not  know  whether  pleasure  or  melancholy  pre- 
dominated ;  for  I  was  reminded  of  those  days 
when,  like  them,  I  had  known  neither  care  nor 
sorrow  and  a  holiday  was  the  summit  of  earthly 
felicity.  We  stopped  a  few  moments  after- 
wards to  water  the  horses,  and  on  resuming 
our  route  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  us  in 


IS  THE  STAGE  COACH. 

sight  of  a  neat  country-seat.  I  could  just  dis- 
tinguish the  forms  of  a  lady  and  two  young 
girls  in  the  portico,  and  I  saw  my  little  com* 
rades,  with  Bantam,  Carlo,  and  old  John, 
trooping  along  the  carriage-road.  I  leaned  out 
of  the  coach-window,  in  hopes  of  witnessing 
the  happy  meeting,  but  a  grove  of  trees  shut 
it  from  my  sight. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  a  village  where 
I  had  determined  to  pass  the  night.  As  we 
drove  into  the  great  gateway  of  the  inn,  I  saw 
on  one  side  the  light  of  a  rousing  kitchen-fire 
beaming  through  a  window.  I  entered,  and 
admired,  for  the  hundredth  time,  that  picture 
of  convenience,  neatness,  and  broad  honest 
enjoyment,  the  kitchen  of  an  English  inn.  It 
was  of  spacious  dimensions,  hung  around  with 
copper  and  tin  vessels,  highly  polished,  and 
decorated  here  and  there  with  a  Christmas 
green.  Hams,  tongues,  and  flitches  of  bacon 
were  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  a  smoke-jack 
made  its  ceaseless  clanking  beside  the  fire- 
place, and  a  clock  ticked  in  one  corner.  A 
well-scoured  deal  table  extended  along  one  side 
of  the  kitchen,  with  a  cold  round  of  beef  and 
other  hearty  viands  upon  it,  over  which  two 
foaming  tankards  of  ale  seemed  mounting 
guard.  Travelers  of  inferior  order  were  pre- 
paring to  attack  this  stout  repast,  while  others 
sat  smoking  and  gossiping  over  their  ale  on  two 
high-backed  oaken  settles  beside  the  fire. 
Trim  housemaids  were  hurrying  backwards 
and  forwards  under  the  directions  of  a  fresh 
bustling  landlady,  but  still  seizing  an  occa- 


THE  STAGE  COACH.  19 

sional  moment  to  exchange  a  flippant  word  and 
have  a  rallying  laugh  with  the  group  round  the 
fire.  The  scene  completely  realized  Poor 
Robin's  humble  idea  of  the  comforts  of  mid- 
winter: 

Now  trees  their  leafy  hats  do  bare 
To  reverence  Winter's  silver  hair; 
A  handsome  hostess,  merry  host, 
A  pot  of  ale  now  and  a  toast, 
Tobacco  and  a  good  coal  fire, 
Are  things  this  season  doth  require.* 

I  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn  when  a  post- 
chaise  drove  up  to  the  door.  A  young  gentle- 
man stepped  out,  and  by  the  light  of  the  lamps 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  countenance  which  I 
thought  I  knew.  I  moved  forward  to  get  a 
nearer  view,  when  his  eye  caught  mine.  I 
was  not  mistaken ;  it  was  Frank  Bracebridge, 
a  sprightly,  good-humored  young  fellow  with 
whom  I  had  once  traveled  on  the  Continent. 
Our  meeting  was  extremely  cordial,  for  the 
countenance  of  an  old  fellow-traveler  always 
brings  up  the  recollection  of  a  thousand  pleas- 
ant scenes,  odd  adventures,  and  excellent 
jokes.  To  discuss  all  these  in  a  transient  in- 
terview at  an  inn  was  impossible ;  and,  finding 
that  I  was  not  pressed  for  time  and  was  merely 
.making  a  tour  of  observation,  he  insisted  that 
I  should  give  him  a  day  or  two  at  his  father's 
country  seat,  to  which  he  was  going  to  pass 
the  holidays  and  which  lay  at  a  few  miles'  dis- 
tance. "It  is  better  than  eating  a  solitary 
Christmas  dinner  at  an  inn,"  said  he,  "and  I 

*Poor  Robin's  Almanack,  1684. 


20  THE  STAGE  COACH. 

can  assure  you  of  a  hearty  welcome  in  some- 
thing of  the  old-fashioned  style. ' '  His  reason- 
ing was  cogent,  and  I  must  confess  the  prepar- 
ation I  had  seen  for  universal  festivity  and 
social  enjoyment  had  made  me  feel  a  little  im- 
patient of  my  loneliness.  I  closed,  therefore, 
at  once  with  his  invitation ;  the  chaise  drove 
up  to  the  door,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  was 
on  my  way  to  the  family  mansion  of  the  Brace- 
bridges. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Benedight 
Blesse  this  house  from  wicked  wight; 
From  the  night-mare  and  the  goblin, 
That  is  hight  good  fellow  Robin ; 
Keep  it  from  all  evil  spirits, 
Fairies,  weasels,  rats  and  ferrets: 

From  curfew  time 

To  the  next  prime. 

— Cartwright. 

It  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  but  ex- 
tremely cold ;  our  chaise  whirled  rapidly  over 
the  frozen  ground;  the  postboy  smacked  his 
whip  incessantly,  and  a  part  of  the  time  his 
horses  were  on  a  gallop.  "He  knows  where 
he  is  going,"  said  my  companion,  laughing, 
"and  is  eager  to  arrive  in  time  for  some  of  the 
merriment  and  good  cheer  of  the  servants' 
hall.  My  father,  you  must  know,  is  a  bigoted 
devotee  of  the  old  school,  and  prides  himself 
upon  keeping  up  something  of  old  English  hos- 
pitality. He  is  a  tolerable  specimen  of  what 
you  will  rarely  meet  with  nowadays  in  its  pur- 
ity, the  old  English  country  gentleman;  for 
our  men  of  fortune  spend  so  much  of  their 
time  in  town,  and  fashion  is  carried  so  much 
into  the  country,  that  the  strong  rich  peculi- 
arities of  ancient  rural  life  are  almost  polished 
away.  My  father,  however,  from  early  years, 

21 


22  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

took  honest  Peacham*  for  his  text-book,  in- 
stead of  Chesterfield;  he  determined  in  his 
own  mind  that  there  was  no  condition  more 
truly  honorable  and  enviable  than  that  of  a 
country  gentleman  on  his  paternal  lands,  and, 
therefore,  passes  the  whole  of  his  time  on  his 
estate.  He  is  a  strenuous  advocate  for  the  re- 
vival of  the  old  rural  games  and  holiday  obser- 
vances, and  is  deeply  read  in  the  writers, 
ancient  and  modern,  who  have  treated  on  the 
subject.  Indeed,  his  favorite  range  of  reading 
is  among  the  authors  who  flourished  at  least 
two  centuries  since,  who,  he  insists,  wrote  and 
thought  more  like  true  Englishmen  than  any 
of  their  successors.  He  even  regrets  some- 
times that  he  had  not  been  born  a  few  centur- 
ies earlier,  when  England  was  itself  and  had 
its  peculiar  manners  and  customs.  As  he  lives 
at  some  distance  from  the  main  road,  in  rather 
a  lonely  part  of  the  country,  without  any  rival 
gentry  near  him,  he  has  that  most  enviable  of 
all  blessings  to  an  Englishman — an  opportu- 
nity of  indulging  the  bent  of  his  own  humor 
without  molestation.  Being  representative  of 
the  oldest  family  in  the  neighborhood,  and  a 
great  part  of  the  peasantry  being  his  tenants, 
he  is  much  looked  up  to,  and  in  general  is 
known  simply  by  the  appellation  of  "The 
Squire' — a  title  which  has  been  accorded  to  the 
head  of  the  family  since  time  immemorial.  I 
think  it  best  to  give  you  these  hints  about  my 
worthy  old  father,  to  prepare  you  for  any 

*Peacham's  "Complete  Gentlemen,"  1622. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  28 

eccentricities    that    might    otherwise    appear 
absurd." 

We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  wall 
of  a  park,  and  at  length  the  chaise  stopped  at 
the  gate.  It  was  in  a  heavy,  magnificent  old 
style,  of  iron  bars  fancifully  wrought  at  top 
into  flourishes  and  flowers.  The  huge  square 
columns  that  supported  the  gate  were  sur- 
mounted by  the  family  crest.  Close  adjoining 
was  the  porter's  lodge,  sheltered  under  dark  fir 
trees  and  almost  buried  in  shrubbery. 

The  postboy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell  which 
resounded  through  the  still  frosty  air,  and  was 
answered  by  the  distant  barking  of  dogs,  with 
which  the  mansion-house  seemed  garrisoned. 
An  old  woman  immediately  appeared  at  the 
gate.  As  the  moonlight  fell  strongly  upon 
her,  I  had  a  full  view  of  a  little  primitive 
dame,  dressed  very  much  in  the  antique  taste, 
with  a  neat  kerchief  and  stomacher,  and  her 
silver  hair  peeping  from  under  a  cap  of  snowy 
whiteness.  She  came  curtseying  forth,  with 
many  expressions  of  simple  joy  at  seeing  her 
young  master.  Her  husband,  it  seemed,  was 
up  at  the  house  keeping  Christmas  Eve  in  the 
servants'  hall;  they  could  not  do  without  him, 
as  he  was  the  best  hand  at  a  song  and  story  in 
the  household. 

My  friend  proposed  that  we  should  alight 
and  walk  through  the  park  to  the  hall,  which 
was  at  no  great  distance,  while  the  chaise 
should  follow  on.  Our  road  wound  through  a 
noble  avenue  of  trees,  among  the  naked 
branches  of  which  the  moon  glittered  as  she 


24  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  ,   J 

rolled  through  the  deep  vault  of  a  cloudless 
sky.  The  lawn  beyond  was  sheeted  with  a 
slight  covering  of  snow,  which  here  and  there 
sparkled  as  the  moonbeams  caught  a  frosty 
crystal,  and  at  a  distance  might  be  seen  a  thin 
transparent  vapor  stealing  up  from  the  low 
grounds  and  threatening  gradually  to  shroud 
the  landscape. 

My  companion  looked  around  him  with 
transport.  "How  often,"  said  he,  "have  I 
scampered  up  this  avenue  on  returning  home 
on  school  vacations!  How  often  have  I  played 
under  these  trees  when  a  boy !  I  feel  a  degree 
of  filial  reverence  for  them,  as  we  look  up  to 
:hose  who  have  cherished  us  in  childhood. 
My  father  was  always  scrupulous  in  exacting 
our  holidays  and  having  us  around  him  on  fam- 
ily festivals.  He  used  to  direct  and  superin- 
tend our  games  with  the  strictness  that  some 
parents  do  the  studies  of  their  children.  He 
was  very  particular  that  we  should  play  the 
old  English  games  according  to  their  original 
form,  and  consulted  old  books  for  precedent 
and  authority  for  every 'merrie  disport' ;  yet 
I  assure  you  there  never  was  pedantry  so  de- 
lightful. It  was  the  policy  of  the  good  old 
gentleman  to  make  his  children  feel  that  home 
was  the  happiest  place  in  the  world;  and  ] 
value  this  delicious  home- feeling  as  one  of  the 
choicest  gifts  a  parent  could  bestow. 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  clamor  of  a  troop 
of  dogs  of  all  sorts  and  sizes, "mongrel,  puppy, 
whelp,  and  hound,  and  curs  of  low  degree," 
that,  disturbed  by  the  ring  of  the  porter's  bell 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  25 

and  the  rattling  of  the  chaise,  came  bounding, 
open-mouthed,  across  the  lawn. 

"  ' The  little  dogs  and  all, 

Tray,  Blanch  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  me!'  " 

cried  Bracebridge,  laughing.  At  the  sound  of 
his  voice  the  bark  was  changed  into  a  yelp  of 
delight,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  surrounded 
and  almost  overpowered  by  the  caresses  of  the 
faithful  animals. 

We  had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old 
family  mansion,  partly  thrown  in  deep  shadow 
and  partly  lit  up  by  the  cold  moonshine.  It 
was  an  irregular  building  of  some  magnitude, 
and  seemed  to  be  of  the  architecture  of  differ- 
ent periods.  One  wing  was  evidently  very 
ancient,  with  heavy  stone-shafted  bow  win- 
dows jutting  out  and  overrun  with  ivy,  from 
among  the  foliage  of  which  the  small  diamond- 
shaped  panes  of  glass  glittered  with  the  moon- 
beams. The  rest  of  the  house  was  in  the 
French  taste  of  Charles  the  Second's  time,  hav- 
ing been  repaired  and  altered,  as  my  friend 
told  me,  by  one  of  his  ancestors  who  returned 
with  that  monarch  at  the  Restoration.  The 
grounds  about  the  house  were  laid  out  in  the 
old  formal  manner  of  artificial  flower-beds, 
clipped  shrubberies,  raised  terraces,  and  heavy 
stone  balustrades,  ornamented  with  urns,  a 
leaden  statue  or  two,  and  a  jet  of  water.  The 
old  gentleman,  I  was  told,  was  extremely  care- 
ful to  preserve  this  obsolete  finery  in  all  its 
original  state.  He  admired  this  fashion  in 
gardening:  it  had  an  air  of  magnificence,  was 


28  .    CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

courtly  and  noble,  and  befiting  good  old  family 
style.  The  boasted  imitation  of  Nature  in 
modern  gardening  had  sprung  up  with  modern 
republican  notions  but  did  not  suit,  a  monarch- 
ical -government ;  it  smacked  of  the  leveling 
system.  I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  intro- 
duction of  politics  into  gardening,  though  I 
expressed  some  apprehension  that  I  should  find 
the  old  gentleman  rather  intolerant  in  his 
creed.  Frank  assured  me,  however,  that  it 
was  almost  the  only  instance  in  which  he  had 
ever  heard  his  father  meddle  with  politics; 
and  he  believed  that  he  had  got  this  notion 
from  a  member  of  Parliament  who  once  passed 
a  few  weeks  with  him.  The  squire  was  glad 
of  any  argument  to  defend  his  clipped  yew 
trees  and  formal  terraces,  which  had  been  oc- 
casionally attacked  by  modern  landscape  gar- 
deners. 

As  we  approached  the  house  'we  heard  the 
sound  of  music,  and  now  and  then  a  burst  of 
laughter  from  one  end  of  the  building.  This, 
Bracebridge  said,  must  proceed  from  the  ser- 
vants' hall,  where  a  great  deal  of  revelry  was 
permitted,  and  even  encouraged,  by  the  squire 
throughout  the  twelve  days  of  Christmas,  pro- 
vided everything  was  done  conformably  to  an- 
cient usage.  Here  were  kept  up  the  old  games 
of  hoodman  blind,  shoe  the  wild  mare,  hot  cock- 
les, steal  the  white  loaf,  bob  apple,  and  snap 
dragon;  the  Yule-clog  and  Christmas  candle 
were  regularly  burnt,  and  the  mistletoe  with 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  27 

its  white  berries  hung  up,  to  the  imminent 
peril  of  all  the  pretty  housemaids.  * 

So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports 
that  we  had  to  ring  repeatedly  before  we  could 
make  ourselves  heard.  On  our  arrival  being 
announced  the  squire  came  out  to  receive  us, 
accompanied  by  his  two  other  sons — one  a 
young  officer  in  the  army,  home  on  a  leave  of 
absence ;  the  other  an  Oxonian,  just  from  the 
university.  The  squire  was  a  fine  healthy  look- 
ing old  gentleman,  with  silver  hair  curling 
lightly  around  an  open  florid  countenance,  in 
which  the  physiognomist,  with  the  advantage, 
like  myself,  of  a  previous  hint  or  two,  might 
discover  a  singular  mixture  of  whim  and 
benevolence. 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affec- 
tionate ;  as  the  evening  was  far  advanced,  the 
squire  would  not  permit  us  to  change  our 
traveling  dresses,  but  ushered  us  at  once  to 
the  company,  which  was  assembled  in  a  large 
old-fashioned  hall.  It  was  composed  of  differ- 
ent branches  of  a  numerous  family  connec- 
tion, where  there  were  the  usual  proportion  of 
old  uncles  and  aunts,  comfortable  married 
dames,  superannuated  spinsters,  blooming 
country  cousins,  half -fledged  striplings,  and 
bright-eyed  boarding-school  hoydens.  They 
were  variously  occupied  —  some  at  a  round 


*  The  mistletoe  is  still  hung  up  in  farm  houses  and 
kitchens  at  Christmas,  and  the  young  men  have  the 
privilege  of  kissing  the  girls  under  it,  plucking  each 
time  a  berry  from  the  bush.  When  the  berries  are  all 
plucked  the  privilege  ceases. 


28  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

game  of  cards ;  others  conversing  around  the 
fireplace ;  at  one  end  of  the  hall  was  a  group 
of  the  young  folks,  some  nearly  grown  up, 
others  of  a  more  tender  and  budding  age, 
fully  engrossed  by  a  merry  game ;  and  a  pro- 
fusion of  wooden  horses,  penny  trumpets,  and 
tattered  dolls  about  the  floor  showed  traces 
of  a  troop  of  little  fairy  beings  who,  having 
frolicked  through  a  happy  day,  had  been 
carried  off  to  slumber  through  a  peaceful 
night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on 
between  young  Bracebridge  and  his  relatives 
I  had  time  to  scan  the  apartment.  I  have 
called  it  a  hall,  for  so  it  had  certainly  been  in 
old  times,  and  the  squire  had  evidently  en- 
deavored to  restore  it  to  something  of  its  prim- 
itive state.  Over  the  heavy  projecting  fire- 
place was  suspended  a  picture  of  a  warrior  in 
armor,  standing  by  a  white  horse,  and  on  the 
opposite  wall  hung  a  helmet,  buckler,  and 
lance.  At  one  end  an  enormous  pair  of  ant- 
lers were  inserted  in  the  wall,  the  branches 
serving  as  hooks  on  which  to  suspend  hats, 
whips,  and  spurs,  and  in  the  corners  of  the 
apartment  were  fowling-pieces,  fishing-rods, 
and  other  sporting  implements.  The  furni- 
ture was  of  the  cumbrous  workmanship  of  for- 
mer days,  though  some  articles  of  modern  con- 
venience had  been  added  and  the  oaken  floor 
had  been  carpeted,  so  that  the  whole  presented 
an  odd  mixture  of  parlor  and  hall. 

The  grate  had  been  removed  from  the  wide 
overwhelming  fireplace  to  make  way  for  a 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  29 

fire  of  wood,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  an 
enormous  log  glowing  and  blazing,  and  send- 
ing forth  a  vast  volume  of  light  and  heat :  this, 
I  understood,  was  the  Yule-clog,  which  the 
squire  was  particular  in  having  brought  in  and 
illuminated  on  a  Christmas  Eve,  according 
to  ancient  custom.* 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  old  squire 
seated  in  his  hereditary  elbow-chair  by  the 
hospitable  fireside  of  his  ancestors,  and  look- 
ing around  him  like  the  sun  of  a  system,  beam- 
ing warmth  and  gladness  to  every  heart.  Even 
the  very  dog  that  lay  stretched  at  his  feet,  as 

*  The  Yule-clog  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  sometimes  the 
root  of  a  tree,  brought  into  the  house  with  great  cere- 
mony on  Christmas  Eve,  laid  in  the  fire-place,  and 
lighted  with  the  brand  of  last  year's  clog.  While  it 
lasted  there  was  great  drinking,  singing,  and  telling  of 
tales.  Sometimes  it  was  accompanied  by  Christmas 
candles ;  but  in  the  cottages  the  only  light  was  from  the 
ruddy  blaze  of  the  great  wood  fire.  The  Yule-clog  was 
to  burn  all  night ;  if  it  went  out.  it  was  considered  a 
sign  of  ill-luck. 
Herrick  mentions  it  in  one  of  his  songs: 

Come,  bring  with  a  noise, 

My  merrie,  merrie  boys, 

The  Christmas  Log  to  the  firing; 

While  my  good  dame,  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free, 

And  drink  to  your  hearts'  desiring. 
The  Yule-clog  is  still  burnt  in  many  farm-houses  and 
kitchens  in  England,  particularly  in  the  north,  and 
there  are  several  superstitions  connected  with  it  among 
the  peasantry.  If  a  squinting  person  come  to  the  house 
while  it  is  burning,  or  a  person  barefooted,  it  is  consid- 
ered an  ill  omen.  The  brand  remaining  from  the  Yule- 
clog  is  carefully  put  away  to  light  the  next  year's  Christ- 
mas fire. 


30  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

he  lazily  shifted  his  position  and  yawned 
would  look  fondly  up  in  his  master's  face,  wag 
his  tail  against  the  floor,  and  stretch  himself 
again  to  sleep,  confident  of  kindness  and  pro- 
tection. There  is  an  emanation  from  the  heart 
in  genuine  hospitality  which  cannot  be  de- 
scribed, but  is  immediately  felt  and  puts  the 
stranger  at  once  at  his  ease.  I  had  not  been 
seated  many  minutes  by  the  comfortable 
hearth  of  the  worthy  old  cavalier  before  I 
found  myself  as  much  at  home  as  if  I  had  been 
one  of  the  family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our 
arrival.  It  was  served  up  in  a  spacious  oaken 
chamber,  the  panels  of  which  shone  with  wax, 
and  around  which  were  several  family  por- 
traits decorated  with  holly  and  ivy.  Besides 
the  accustomed  lights,  two  great  wax  tapers, 
called  Christmas  candles,  wreathed  with 
greens,  were  placed  on  a  highly  polished 
beaufet  among  the  family  plate.  The  table 
was  abundantly  spread  with  substantial  fare ; 
but  the  squire  made  his  supper  of  frumenty,  a 
dish  made  of  wheat  cakes  boiled  in  milk  with 
rich  spices,  being  a  standing  dish  in  old  times 
for  Christmas  Eve.  I  was  happy  to  find  my 
old  friend,  minced  pie,  in  the  retinue  of  the 
feast ;  and,  finding  him  to  be  perfectly  ortho- 
dox, and  that  I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  my 
predilection,  I  greeted  him  with  all  the  warmth 
wherewith  we  usually  greet  an  old  and  very 
genteel  acquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  pro- 
moted by  the  humors  of  an  eccentric  personage 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  31 

whom  Mr.  Bracebridge  always  addressed  with 
the  quaint  appellation  of  Master  Simon.  He 
was  a  tight  brisk  little  man,  with  the  air  of  an 
arrant  old  bachelor.  His  nose  was  shaped  like 
the  bill  of  a  parrot ;  his  face  slightly  pitted 
with  the  small-pox,  with  a  dry  perpetual  bloom 
on  it,  like  a  frost-bitten  leaf  in  autumn,  He 
had  an  eye  of  great  quickness  and  vivacity, 
with  a  drollery  and  lurking  waggery  of  expres- 
sion that  was  irresistible.  He  was  evidently 
the  wit  of  the  family,  dealing  very  much  in 
sly  jokes  and  innuendoes  with  the  ladies,  and 
making  infinite  merriment  by  harping  upon 
old  themes,  which,  unfortunately,  my  ignor- 
ance of  the  family  chronicles  did  not  permit 
me  to  enjoy.  It  seemed  to  be  his  great  de- 
light during  supper  to  keep  a  young  girl  next 
to  him  in  a  continual  agony  of  stifled  laughter, 
in  spite  of  her  awe  of  the  reproving  looks  of 
her  mother,  who  sat  opposite.  Indeed,  he  was 
the  idol  of  the  younger  part  of  the  company, 
who  laughed  at  everything  he  said  or  did  and 
at  every  turn  of  his  countenance.  I  could  not 
wonder  at  it ;  for  he  must  have  been  a  miracle 
of  accomplishments  in  their  eyes.  He  could 
imitate  Punch  and  Judy ;  make  an  old  woman 
of  his  hand,  with  the  assistance  of  a  burnt 
cork  and  pocket-handkerchief;  and  cut  an 
orange  into  such  a  ludicrous  caricature  that 
the  young  folks  were  ready  to  die  with  laugh- 
ing. 

I  was  let  briefly  into  his  history  by  Frank 
Bracebridge.  He  was  an  old  bachelor,  of  a 
small  independent  income,  which  by  careful 


32  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

management  was  sufficient  for  all  his  wants. 
He  revolved  through  the  family  system  like  a 
vagrant  comet  in  its  orbit,  sometimes  visiting 
one  branch,  and  sometimes  another  quite  re- 
mote, as  is  often  the  case  with  gentlemen  of 
extensive  connections  and  small  fortunes  in 
England.  He  had  a  chirping,  buoyant  dispo- 
sition, always  enjoying  the  present  moment; 
and  his  frequent  change  of  scene  and  company 
prevented  his  acquiring  those  rusty,  unaccom- 
modating habits  with  which  old  bachelors  are 
so  uncharitably  charged.  He  was  a  complete 
family  chronicle,  being  versed  in  the  geneal- 
ogy, history,  and  intermarriages  of  the  whole 
house  of  Bracebridge,  which  made  him  a 
great  favorite  with  the  old  folks;  he  was  a 
beau  of  all  the  elder  ladies  and  superannuated 
spinsters,  among  whom  he  was  habitually  con- 
sidered rather  a  young  fellow ;  and  he  was  mas- 
ter of  the  revels  among  the  children,  so  that 
there  was  not  a  more  popular  being  in  the 
sphere  in  which  he  moved  than  Mr.  Simon 
Bracebridge.  Of  late  years  he  had  resided 
almost  entirely  with  the  squire,  to  whom  he 
had  become  a  factotum,  and  whom  he  particu- 
larly delighted  by  jumping  with  his  humor  in 
respect  to  old  times  and  by  having  a  scrap  of 
an  old  song  to  suit  every  occasion.  We  had 
presently  a  specimen  of  his  last-mentioned  tal- 
ent, for  no  sooner  was  supper  removed  and 
spiced  wines  and  other  beverages  peculiar  to 
the  season  introduced,  than  Master  Simon  was 
called  on  for  a  good  old  Christmas  song.  He 
bethought  himself  for  a  moment,  and  then, 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  33 

with  a  sparkle  of  the  eye  and  a  voice  that  was 
by  no  means  bad,  except  that  it  ran  occasion- 
ally into  a  falsetto  like  the  notes  of  'a  split 
reed,  he  quavered  forth  a  quaint  old  ditty: 

Now  Christmas  is  come. 

Let  us  beat  up  the  drum, 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together; 

And  when  they  appear, 

Let  us  make  them  such  cheer, 
As  will  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather,  etc. 

The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety, 
and  an  old  harper  was  summoned  from  the 
servant's  hall,  where  he  had  been  strumming 
all  the  evening,  and  to  all  appearance  com- 
forting himself  with  some  of  the  squire's  home- 
brewed. He  was  a  kind  of  hanger-on,  I  was 
told,  of  the  establishment,  and,  though  osten- 
sibly a  resident  of  the  village,  was  oftener  to 
be  found  in  the  squire's  kitchen  than  his  own 
home,  the  old  gentleman  being  fond  of  the 
sound  of  "harp  in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper, 
was  a  merry  one:  some  of  the  older  folks 
joined  in  it,  and  the  squire  himself  figured 
down  several  couple  with  a  partner  with  whom 
he  affirmed  he  had  danced  at  every  Christ- 
mas for  nearly  half  a  century.  Master  Simon, 
who  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  connecting  link 
between  the  old  times  and  the  new,  and  to  be 
withal  a  little  antiquated  in  the  taste  of  his 
accomplishments,  evidently  piqued  himself  on 
his  dancing,  and  was  endeavoring  to  gain 
credit  by  the  heel  and  toe,  rigadoon,  and  other 


34  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

graces  of  the  ancient  school ;  but  he  had  un- 
luckily assorted  himself  with  a  little  romping 
girl  from  boarding-school,  who  by  her  wild 
vivacity  kept  him  continually  on  the  stretch 
and  defeated  all  his  sober  attempts  at  ele- 
gance; such  are  the  ill-storted  matches  to 
which  antique  gentlemen  are  unfortunately 
prone. 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had 
led  out  one  of  his  maiden  aunts,  on  whom 
the  rogue  played  a  thousand  little  knaveries 
with  impunity:  he  was  full  of  practical  jokes, 
and  his  delight  was  to  tease  his  aunts  and 
cousins,  yet,  like  all  madcap  youngsters,  he 
was  a  universal  favorite  among  the  women. 
The  most  interesting  couple  in  the  dance  was 
the  young  officer  and  a  ward  of  the  squire's,  a 
beautiful  blushing  girl  of  seventeen.  From 
several  shy  glances  which  I  had  noticed  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  I  suspected  there  was  a 
little  kindness  growing  up  between  them ;  and 
indeed  the  young  soldier  was  just  the  hero  to 
captivate  a  romantic  girl.  He  was  tall,  slen- 
der, and  handsome,  and,  like  most  young  Brit- 
ish officers  of  late  years,  had  picked  up  various 
small  accomplishments  on  the  Continent:  he 
could  talk  French  and  Italian,  draw  land- 
scapes, sing  very  tolerably,  dance  divinely; 
but,  above  all,  he  had  been  wounded  at 
Waterloo.  What  girl  of  seventeen,  well  read  in 
poetry  and  romance,  could  resist  such  a  mir- 
ror of  chivalry  and  perfection? 

The  moment  the  dance  was  over  he  caught 
up  a  guitar,  and,  lolling  against  the  old  marble 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  W 

fireplace  in  an  attitude  which  I  am  half  in- 
clined to  suspect  was  studied,  began  the  little 
French  air  of  the  Troubadour.  The  squire, 
however,  exclaimed  against  having  anything 
on  Christmas  Eve  but  good  old  English ;  upon 
which  the  young  minstrel,  casting  up  his  eye 
for  a  moment  as  if  in  an  effort  of  memory, 
struck  into  another  strain,  and  with  a  charm- 
ing air  of  gallantry  gave  Herrick's  "Night- 
Piece  to  Julia:" 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee, 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

No  Will-o'-the-Wisp  mislight  thee ; 
Nor  snake  nor  slow-worm  bit  thee 

But  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thee. 

Then  let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber. 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me, 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet, 
My  soul  I'll  pour  unto  thee. 

The  song  might  or  might  not  have  been  in- 
tended in  compliment  to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so  I 
found  his  partner  was  called;  she,  however, 
was  certainly  unconscious  of  any  such  applica- 


36  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

tion,  for  she  never  looked  at  the  singer,  but 
kept  her  eyes  cast  upon  the  floor.  Her  face 
was  suffused,  it  is  true,  with  a  beautiful  blush, 
and  there  was  a  gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom, 
but  all  that  was  doubtless  caused  by  the  exer- 
cise of  the  dance ;  indeed,  so  great  was  her  in- 
difference that  she  amused  herself  with  pluck- 
ing to  pieces  a  choice  bouquet  of  hot-house 
flowers,  and  by  the  time  the  song  was  con- 
cluded the  nose-gay  lay  in  ruins  on  the  floor. 

The  party  now  broke  up  for  the  night  with 
the  kind-hearted  old  custom  of  shaking  hands. 
As  I  passed  through  the  hall  on  my  way  to 
my  chamber,  the  dying  embers  of  the  Yule- 
clog  still  sent  forth  a  dusky  glow,  and  had  it 
not  been  the  season  when  "no  spirit  dares  stir 
abroad, ' '  I  should  have  been  half  tempted  to 
steal  from  my  room  at  midnight  and  peep 
whether  the  fairies  might  not  be  at  their  revels 
about  the  hearth. 

My  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  man- 
sion, the  ponderous  furniture  of  which  might 
have  been  fabricated  in  the  days  of  the  giants. 
The  room  was  paneled,  with  cornices  of 
heavy  carved  work,  in  which  flowers  and  gro- 
tesque faces  were  strangely  intermingled,  and 
a  row  of  black-looking  portraits  stared  mourn- 
fully at  me  from  the  walls.  The  bed  was  of 
rich  though  faded  damask,  with  a  lofty  tester, 
and  stood  in  a  niche  opposite  a  bow  window.  I 
had  scarcely  got  into  bed  when  a  strain  of  music 
seemed  to  break  forth  in  the  air  just  below  the 
window.  I  listened,  and  found  it  proceeded 
from  a  band  which  I  concluded  to  be  the  Waits 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  37 

from  some  neighboring1  village.  They  went 
round  the  house,  playing  under  the  windows. 
I  drew  aside  the  curtains  to  hear  them  more 
distinctly.  The  moonbeams  fell  through  the 
upper  part  of  the  casement ;  partially  lighting 
up  the  antiquated  apartment.  The  sounds,  as 
they  receded,  became  more  soft  and  aerial, 
and  seemed  to  accord  with  the  quiet  and  moon- 
light. I  listened  and  listened — they  became 
more  and  more  tender  and  remote,  and,  as 
they  gradually  died  away,  my  head  sunk  upon 
the  pillow  and  I  fell  asleep. 


CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

Dark  and  dull  night,  flie  hence  away. 
And  give  the  honor  to  this  day 
That  sees  December  turn'd  to  May. 

Why  does  the  chilling  winter's  morne 
Smile  like  a  field  beset  with  corn? 
Or  smell  like  to  a  meade  new-shorne, 
Thus  on  the  sudden? — come  and  see 
The  cause  why  things  thus  fragrant  be. 

— Herrick. 

When  I  woke  the  next  morning  it  seemed  as 
if  all  the  events  of  the  preceding  evening  had 
been  a  dream,  and  nothing  but  the  identity  of 
the  ancient  chamber  convinced  me  of  their 
reality.  While  I  lay  musing  on  my  pillow  I 
heard  the  sound  of  little  feet  pattering  outside 
of  the  door,  and  a  whispering  consultation. 
Presently  a  choir  of  small  voices  chanted  forth 
an  old  Christmas  carol,  the  burden  of  which 
was—- 
Rejoice, our  Saviour  he  was  born 
On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning. 

I  rose  softly,  slipt  on  my  clothes,  opened  the 
door  suddenly,  and  beheld  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  little  fairy  groups  that  a  painter  could 
imagine.  It  consisted  of  a  boy  and  two  girls, 
the  eldest  not  more  than  six,  and  lovely  as 
seraphs.  They  were  going  the  rounds  of  the 
38 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  39 

house  and  singing  at  very  chamber  door,  but 
my  sudden  appearance  frightened  them  into 
mute  bashfulness.  They  remained  for  a 
moment  playing  on  their  lips  with  their 
fingers,  'and  now  and  then  stealing  a  shy 
glance  from  under  their  eyebrows,  until,  as  if 
by  one  impulse,  they  scampered  away,  and  as 
they  turned  an  angle  of  the  gallery  I  heard 
them  laughing  in  triumph  at  their  escape. 

Everything  conspired  to  produce  kind  and 
happy  feelings  in  this  stronghold  of  old-fash- 
ioned hospitality.  The  window  of  my  cham- 
ber looked  out  upon  what  in  summer  would 
have  been  a  beautiful  landscape.  There  was  a 
sloping  lawn,  a  fine  stream  winding  at  the  foot 
of  it,  and  a  tract  of  park  beyond,  with  noble 
clumps  of  trees  and  herds  of  deer.  At  a  dis- 
tance was  a  neat  hamlet,  with  the  smoke  from 
the  cottage  chimneys  hanging  over  it,  and  a 
church  with  its  dark  spire  in  strong  relief 
against  the  clear  cold  sky.  The  house  was  sur- 
rounded with  evergreens,  according  to  the  Eng- 
lish custom,  which  would  have  given  almost  an 
appearance  of  summer;  but  the  morning  was 
extremely  frosty ;  the  light  vapor  of  the  pre- 
ceding evening  had  been  precipitated  by  the 
cold,  and  covered  all  the  trees  and  every  blade 
of  grass  with  its  fine  crystallizations.  The  rays 
of  a  bright  morning  sun  had  a  dazzling  effect 
among  the  glittering  foliage.  A  robin,  perched 
upon  the  top  of  a  mountain-ash  that  hung  its 
clusters  of  red  berries  just  before  my  window, 
was  basking  himself  in  the  sunshine  and  pip- 
ing a  few  querulous  notes,  and  a  peacock  was 
n 


40  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

displaying  all  the  glories  of  his  train  and  strut- 
ting with  the  pride  and  gravity  of  a  Spanish 
grandee  on  the  terrace  walk  below. 

I  had  scarcely  dressed  myself  when  a  servant 
appeared  to  invite  me  to  family  prayers.  He 
showed  me  the  way  to  a  small  chapel  in  the 
old  wing  of  the  house,  where  I  found  the  prin- 
cipal part  of  the  family  already  assembled  in  a 
kind  of  gallery  furnished  with  cushions,  has- 
socks, and  large  prayer-books;  the  servants 
were  seated  on  benches  below.  The  old 
gentleman  read  prayers  from  a  desk  in  front 
of  the  gallery,  and  Master  Simon  acted  as 
clerk  and  made  the  responses ;  and  I  must  do 
him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  acquitted  himself 
with  great  gravity  and  decorum. 

The  service  was  followed  by  a  Christmas 
carol,  which  Mr.  Bracebridge  himself  had  con- 
structed from  a  poem  of  his  favorite  author, 
Herrick,  and  it  had  been  adapted  to  an  old 
church  melody  by  Master  Simon.  As  there 
were  several  good  voices  among  the  household, 
the  effect  was  extremely  pleasing,  but  I  was 
particularly  gratified  by  the  exaltation  of  heart 
and  sudden  sally  of  grateful  feeling  with  which 
the  worthy  squire  delivered  one  stanza,  his  eye 
glistening  and  his  voice  rambling  out  of  all 
the  bounds  of  time  and  tune : 


"  "Pis  Thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth, 
And  givest  me  Wassaile  bowles  to  drink 

Spiced  to  the  brink ; 
Lord,  'tis  Thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soiles  my  land: 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  41 

And  giv'st  me  for  my  bushell  sowne, 
Twice  ten  for  one." 

I  afterwards  understood  that  early  morning 
service  was  read  on  every  Sunday  and  saint's 
day  throughout  the  year,  either  by  Mr,  Brace- 
bridge  or  by  some  member  of  the  family.  It 
was  once  almost  universally  the  case  at  the 
seats  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  England, 
and  it  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  the  custom 
is  falling  into  neglect ;  for  the  dullest  observer 
must  be  sensible  of  the  order  and  serenity 
prevalent  in  those  households  where  the  occa- 
sional exercise  of  a  beautiful  form  of  worship 
in  the  morning  gives,  as  it  were,  the  keynote 
to  every  temper  for  the  day  and  attunes  every 
spirit  to  harmony. 

Our  breakfast  consisted  of  what  the  squire 
denominated  true  old  English  fare.  He 
indulged  in  some  bitter  lamentations  over  mod- 
ern breakfasts  of  tea  and  toast,  which  he  cen- 
sured as  among  the  causes  of  modern  effem- 
inancy  and  weak  nerves  and  the  decline  of  old 
English  heartiness;  and,  though  he  admitted 
them  to  his  table  to  suit  the  palates  of  his 
guests,  yet  there  was  a  brave  display  of  cold 
meats,  wine,  and  ale  on  the  sideboard. 

After  breakfast  I  walked  about  the  grounds 
with  Frank  Bracebridge  and  Master  Simon,  or 
Mr.  Simon,  as  he  was  called  by  everybody  but 
the  squire.  We  were  escorted  by  a  number  of 
gentlemanlike  dogs,  that  seemed  loungers 
about  the  establishment,  from  the  frisking 
spaniel  to  the  steady  old  stag-hound,  the  last 
of  which  was  of  a  race  that  had  been  in  the 


42  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

family  time  out  of  mind ;  they  were  all  obedi- 
ent to  a  dog-whistle  which  hung  to  Master 
Simon's  buttonhole,  and  in  the  midst  of  their 
gambols  would  glance  an  eye  occasionally  upon 
a  small  switch  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

The  old  mansion  had  a  still  more  venerable 
look  in  the  yellow  sunshine  than  by  pale  moon- 
light ;  and  I  could  not  but  feel  the  force  of 
the  squire's  idea  that  the  formal  terraces, 
heavily  moulded  balustrades,  and  clipped  yew 
trees  carried  with  them  an  air  of  proud  aris- 
tocracy. There  appeared  to  be  an  unusual 
number  of  peacocks  about  the  place,  and  I  was 
making  some  remarks  upon  what  I  termed  a 
flock  o'f  them  that  were  basking  under  a  sunny 
wall,  when  I  was  gently  corrected  in  my 
phraseology  by  Master  Simon,  who  told  me 
that  according  to  the  most  ancient  and  ap- 
proved treatise  on  hunting  I  must  say  a  muster 
of  peacocks.  "In  the  same  way,"  added  he, 
with  a  slight  air  of  pedantry,  "we  say  a  flight 
of  doves  or  swallows,  a  bevy  of  quails,  a  herd 
of  deer,  of  wrens,  or  cranes,  a  skulk  of  foxes, 
or  a  building  of  rooks. "  He  went  on  to  inform 
me  that,  according  to  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert, 
we  ought  to  ascribe  to  this  bird  "both  under- 
standing and- glory;  for,  being  praised,  he  will 
presently  set  up  his  tail,  chiefly  against  the 
sun,  to  the  intent  you  may  the  better  behold 
the  beauty  thereof.  But  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf, 
when  his  tail  falleth,  he  will  mourn  and  hide 
himself  in  corners  till  his  tail  come  again  as  it 
was." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  display  of 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  43 

small  erudition  on  so  whimsical  a  subject }  but 
I  found  that  the  peacocks  were  birds  of  some 
consequence  at  the  hall,  for  Frank  Bracebridge 
informed  me  that  they  were  great  favorites 
with  his  father,  who  was  extremely  careful  to 
keep  up  the  breed;  partly  becau.se  they 
belonged  to  chivalry,  and  were  in  great  request 
at  the  stately  banquets  of  the  olden  time,  and 
partly  because  they  had  a  pomp  and  mag- 
nificence about  them  highly  becoming  an  old 
family  mansion.  Nothing,  he  was  accustomed 
to  say,  had  an  air  of  greater  state  and  dignity 
than  a  peacock  perched  upon  an  antique  stone 
balustrade. 

Master  Simon  had  now  to  hurry  off,  having 
an  appointment  at  the  parish  church  with  the 
village  choristers,  who  were  to  perform  some 
music  of  his  selection.  There  was  something 
extremely  agreeable  in  the  cheerful  flow  of 
animal  spirits  of  the  little  man ;  and  I  confess 
I  had  been  somewhat  surprised  at  his  apt  quo- 
tations from  authors  who  certainly  were  not 
in  the  range  of  every-  day  reading.  I  mentioned 
this  last  circumstance  to  Frank  Bracebridge, 
who  told  me  with  a  smile  that  Master  Simon's 
whole  stock  of  erudition  was  confined  to  some 
half  a  dozen  old  authors,  which  the  squire  had 
put  into  his  hands,  and  which  he  read  over 
and  over  whenever  he  had  a  studious  fit,  as  he 
sometimes  had  on  a  rainy  day  or  a  long  winter 
evening.  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert's  "Book  of 
Husbandry,"  Markham's  "Country  Content- 
ments," the  "Tretyse  of  Hunting,"  by  Sir 
Thomas  Cockayne,  Knight,  Isaac  Walton's 


44  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

"Angler,"  and  two  ar  three  more  such  ancient 
worthies  of  the  pen  were  his  standard  author- 
ities; and,  like  all  men  who  knew  but  a  few 
books,  he  looked  up  to  them  with  a  kind  of 
idolatry  and  quoted  them  on  all  occasions.  As 
to  his  songs,  they  were  chiefly  picked  out  of 
old  books  in  the  squire's  library,  and  adapted 
to  tunes  that  were  popular  among  the  choice 
spirits  of  the  last  century.  His  practical  appli- 
cation of  scraps  of  literature,  however,  had 
caused  him  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  prodigy  of 
book-knowledge  by  all  the  grooms,  hunstmen, 
and  small  sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood. 

While  we  were  talking  we  heard  the  distant 
toll  of  the  village  bell,  and  I  was  told  that  the 
squire  was  a  little  particular  in  having  his 
household  at  church  on  a  Christmas  morning, 
considering  it  a  day  of  pouring  out  of  thanks 
and  rejoicing;  for,  as  old  Tusser  observed, — 

"At  Christmas  be  merry,  and  thankful  withal, 

And  feast  thy  poor  neighbors,  the  great  with  the  small." 

"If  you  are  disposed  to  go  to  church,'  said 
Frank  Bracebridge,  ' '  I  can  promise  you  a  spec- 
imen of  my  cousin  Simon's  musical  achieve- 
ments. As  the  church  is  destitute  of  an  organ, 
he  has  formed  a  band  from  the  village  ama- 
teurs, and  established  a  musical  club  for  their 
improvement ;  he  has  also  sorted  a  choir,  as  he 
sorted  my  father's  pack  of  hounds,  according 
to  the  directions  of  Jervaise  Markham  in  his 
'Country  Contentments:'  for  the  bass  he  has 
sought  out  of  all  the 'deep,  solemn  mouths, ' 
and  for  the  tenor  the 'loud-ringing  mouths,' 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  45 

among  the  country  bumpkins,  and  for  'sweet- 
mouths,'  he  has  culled  with  curious  taste 
among  the  prettiest  lasses  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  though  these  last,  he  affirms,  are  the 
most  difficult  to  keep  in  tune,  your  pretty 
female  singer  being  exceedingly  wayward  and 
capricious,  and  very  liable  to  accident." 

As  the  morning,  though  frosty,  was  remark- 
ably fine  and  clear,  the  most  of  the  family 
walked  to  the  church,  which  was  a  very  old 
building  of  gray  stone,  and  stood  near  a  village 
about  half  a  mile  from  the  park  gate.  Adjoin- 
ing it  was  a  low  snug  parsonage  which  seemed 
coeval  with  the  church.  The  front  of  it  was 
perfectly  matted  with  a  yew  tree  that  had  been 
trained  against  its  walls,  through  the  dense 
foliage  of  which  apertures  had  been  formed 
to  admit  light  into  the  small,  antique  lattices. 
As  we  passed  this  sheltered  nest  the  parson 
issued  forth  and  preceded  us. 

I  had  expected  to  see  a  sleek  well-condi- 
tioned pastor,  such  as  is  often  found  in  a  snug 
living  in  the  vicinity  of  a  rich  patron's  table, 
but  I  was  disappointed.  The  parson  was  a 
little,  meagre,  black-looking  man,  with  a 
grizzled  wig  that  was  too  wide  and  stood  off 
from  each  ear;  so  that  his  head  seemed  to 
have  shrunk  away  within  it,  like  a  dried  fil- 
bert in  its  shell.  He  wore  a  rusty  coat,  with 
great  skirts  and  pockets  that  would  have  held 
the  church  Bible  an4  prayer-book:  and  his 
small  legs  seemed  still  smaller  from  being 
planted  in  large  shoes  decorated  with  enor- 
mous buckles. 


46  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

I  was  informed  by  Frank  Bracebridge  that 
the  parson  had  been  a  chum  of  his  father's  at 
Oxford,  and  had  received  this  living  shortly 
after  the  latter  had  come  to  his  estate.  He 
was  a  complete  black-letter  hunter,  and  would 
scarcely  read  a  work  printed  in  the  Roman 
character.  The  editions  of  Caxton  and  Wyn- 
kyn  de  Worde  were  his  delight,  and  he  was 
indefatigable  in  his  researches  after  such  old 
English  writers  as  had  fallen  into  oblivion 
from  their  worthlessness.  In  deference,  per- 
haps, to  the  notions  of  Mr.  Bracebridge  he  had 
made  diligent  investigations  into  the  festive 
rites  and  holiday  customs  of  former  times,  and 
had  been  as  zealous  in  the  inquiry  as  if  he  had 
been  a  boon  companion;  but  it  was  merely 
with  that  plodding  spirit  with  which  men  of 
a  dust  temperament  follow  up  any  track  of 
study,  merely  because  it  is  denominated  learn- 
ing; indifferent  to  its  intrinsic  nature,  whether 
it  be  the  illustration  of  the  wisdom  or  of  the 
ribaldry  and  obscenity  of  antiquity.  He  had 
pored  over  these  old  volumes  so  intensely  that 
they  seemed  to  have  been  reflected  into  his 
countenance ;  which,  if  the  face  be  indeed  an 
index  of  the  mind,  might  be  compared  to  a 
title-page  of  black-letter. 

On  reaching  the  church-porch  we  found  the 
parson  rebuking  the  gray-headed  sexton  for 
having  used  mistletoe  among  the  greens  with 
which  the  church  was  decorated.  It  was,  ^  he 
observed,  an  unholy  plant,  profaned  by  having 
been  used  by  the  Druids  in  their  mystic  cere- 
monies; and,  though  it  might  be  innocently 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  47 

employed  in  the  festive  ornamenting  of  halls 
and  kitchens,  yet  it  had  been  deemed  by  the 
fathers  of  the  church  as  unhallowed  and  totally 
unfit  for  sacred  purposes.  So  tenacious  was 
he  on  this  point  that  the  poor  sexton  was 
obliged  to  strip  down  a  great  part  of  the  hum- 
ble trophies  of  his  taste  before  the  parson 
would  consent  to  enter  upon  the  service  of  the 
day. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  venerable, 
but  simple ;  on  the  walls  were  several  mural 
monuments  of  the  Bracebridges,  and  just 
beside  the  altar  was  a  tomb  of  ancient  work- 
manship, on  which  lay  the  effigy  of  a  warrior 
in  armor  with  his  legs  crossed,  a  sign  of  his 
having  been  a  crusader.  I  was  told  it  was  one 
of  the  family  who  had  signalized  himself  in 
the  Holy  Land,  and  the  same  whose  picture 
hung  over  the  fireplace  in  the  hall. 

During  service  Master  Simon  stood  up  in  the 
pew  and  repeated  the  responses  very  audibly, 
evincing  that  kind  of  ceremonious  devotion 
punctually  observed  by  a  gentleman  of  the  old 
school  and  a  man  of  old  family  connections.  I 
observed  too  that  he  turned  over  the  leaves  of 
a  folio  prayer-book  with  something  of  a  flourish ; 
possibly  to  show  off  an  enormous  seal-ring 
which  enriched  one  of  his  fingers  and  which 
had  the  look  of  a  family  relic.  But  he  was 
evidently  most  solicitous  about  the  musical 
part  of  the  service,  keeping  his  eye  fixed 
intently  on  the  choir,  and  beating  time  wih 
much  gesticulation  and  emphasis. 

The  orchestra  was  in  a  small  gallery,  and 


43  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

presented  a  most  whimsical  grouping  of  heads 
piled  one  above  the  other,  among  which  I  par- 
ticularly noticed  that  of  the  village  tailor,  a 
pale  fellow  with  a  retreated  forehead  and  chin, 
who  played  on  the  clarinet,  and  seemed  to 
have  blown  his  face  to  a  point;  and  there 
was  another,  a  short  pursy  man,  stooping  and 
laboring  at  a  bass-viol,  so  as  to  show  nothing 
but  the  top  of  a  round  bald  head,  like  the  egg 
of  an  ostrich.  There  were  two  or  three  pretty 
faces  among  the  female  singers,  to  which  the 
keen  air  of  a  frosty  morning  had  given  a 
bright  rosy  tint ;  but  the  gentleman  choristers 
had  evidently  been  chosen,  like  old  Cremona 
fiddles,  more  for  tone  than  looks;  and  as  sev- 
eral had  to  sing  from  the  same  book,  there 
were  clusterings  of  odd  physiognomies  not  un- 
like those  groups  of  cherubs  we  sometimes  see 
on  country  tombstones. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  man- 
aged tolerably  well,  the  vocal  parts  generally 
lagging  a  little  behind  the  instrumental,  and 
some  loitering  fiddler  now  and  then  making 
up  for  lost  time  by  traveling  over  a  passage 
with  prodigious  celerity  and  clearing  more  bars 
than  the  keenest  fox-hunter  to  be  in  at  the 
death.  But  the  great  trial  was  an  anthem  that 
had  been  prepared  and  arranged  by  Master 
Simon,  and  on  which  he  had  founded  great  ex- 
pectation. Unluckily,  there  was  a  blunder  at 
the  very  outset;  the  musicians  became  flur- 
ried; Master  Simon  was  in  a  fever;  everything 
went  on  lamely  and  irregularly  until  they  came 
to  a  chorus  beginning,  "Now,  let  us  sing  with 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  49 

one  accord, ' '  which  seemed  to  be  a  signal  for 
parting  company ;  all  became  discord  and  con- 
fusion; each  shifted  for  himself,  and  got  to 
the  end  as  well— or,  rather,  as  soon — as  he 
could,  excepting  one  old  chorister  in  a  pair  of 
horn  spectacles  bestriding  and  pinching  a  long 
sonorous  nose,  who  happened  to  stand  a  little 
apart,  and,  being  wrapped  up  in  his  own  mel- 
ody, kept  on  a  quavering  course,  wriggling 
his  head,  ogling  his  book,  and  winding  all  up 
by  a  nasal  solo  of  at  least  three  bars'  dura- 
tion. 

The  parson  gave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on 
the  rites  and  ceremonies  of  Christmas,  and  the 
propriety  of  observing  it  not  merely  as  a  day 
of  thanksgiving,  but  of  rejoicing,  supporting 
the  correctness  of  his  opinions  by  the  earliest 
usages  of  the  Church,  and  enforcing  them  by 
the  authorities  of  Theophilus  of  Csesarea,  St. 
Cyprian,  St.  Chrysostom,  St.  Augustine,  and  a 
cloud  more  of  saints  and  fathers,  from  whom 
he  made  copious  quotations.  I  was  a  little  at 
a  loss  to  perceive  the  necessity  of  such  a  mighty 
array  of  forces  to  maintain  a  point  which  no 
one  present  seemed  inclined  to  dispute;  but  I 
soon  found  that  the  good  man  had  a  legion  of 
ideal  adversaries  to  contend  with,  having  in 
the  course  of  his  researches  on  the  subject  of 
Christmas  got  completely  embroiled  in  the 
sectarian  controversies  of  the"  Revolution, 
when  the  Puritans  made  such  a  fierce  assault 
upon  the  ceremonies  of  the  Church,  and  poor 
old  Christmas  was  driven  out  of  the  land  by 


50  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

proclamation  of  Parliament*  The  worthy 
parson  lived  but  with  times  past,  and  knew  but 
little  of  the  present. 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  re- 
tirement of  his  antiquated  little  study,  the 
pages  of  old  times  were  to  him  as  the  gazettes 
of  the  day,  while  the  era  of  the  Revolution 
was  mere  modern  history.  He  forgot  that 
nearly  two  centuries  had  elapsed  since  the 
fiery  persecution  of  poor  mince-pie  throughout 
the  land;  when  plum  porridge  was  denounced 
as  "mere  popery,"  and  roast  beef  as  anti-chris- 
tian,  and  that  Christmas  had  been  brought  in 
again  triumphantly  with  the  merry  court  of 
King  Charles  at  the  Restoration.  He  kindled 
into  warmth  with  the  ardor  of  his  contest  and 
the  host  of  imaginary  foes  with  whom  he  had 
to  combat;  he  had  a  stubborn  conflict  with  old 
Prynne  and  two  or  three  other  forgotten  cham- 
pions of  the  Roundheads  on  the  subject  of 

*From  the  "Flying  Eagle,"  a  small  gazette,  published 
December  24,  1652:  "The  House  spent  much  time  this 
day  about  the  business  of  the  Navy,  for  settling  the 
affairs  at  sea,  and  before  they  rose,  were  presented  with 
a  terrible  remonstrance  against  Christmas  day,  ground- 
ed upon  divine  Scriptures,  a  Cor.  v.  16;  i  Cor.  xv.  14, 
17-  and  in  honor  of  the  Lord's  Day,  grounded  upon 
these  Scriptures,  John  xx.  i;  Rev.  i.  10;  Psalms  cxvnt. 
24-  Lev  xxiii.  7,  ir;  Mark  xv.  8;  Psalms  Ixxxiv.  10,  m 
which  Christmas  is  called  Anti-Christ's  masse,  and  those 
Masse-mongers  and  Papists  who  observe  it,  etc.  In 
consequence  of  which  Parliaments  spent  some  time  m 
consultation  about  the  abolition  of  Christmas  day, 
passed  orders  to  that  effect,  and  resolved  to  sit  on  the 
following  day,  which  was  commonly  called  Christmas 
day." 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  51 

Christmas  festivity;  and  concluded  by  Urging 
his  hearers,  in  the  most  solemn  and  affecting 
manner,  to  stand  to  the  traditional  customs  of 
their  fathers  and  feast  and  make  merry  on  this 
joyful  anniversary  of  the  Church. 

I  have  seldom  known  a  sermon  attended 
apparently  with  more  immediate  effects,  for 
on  leaving  the  church  the  congregation  seemed 
one  and  all  possessed  with  the  gayety  of  spirit 
so  earnestly  enjoined  by  their  pastor.  The 
elder  folks  gathered  in  knots  in  the  church- 
yard, greeting  and  shaking  hands,  and  the  chil- 
dren ran  about  crying  Ule !  Ule !  and  repeating 
some  uncouth  rhymes,*  which  the  parson,  who 
had  joined  us,  informed  me  had  been  handed 
down  from  days  of  yore.  The  villagers  doffed 
their  hats  to  the  squire  as  he  passed,  giving 
him  the  good  wishes  of  the  season  with  every 
appearance  of  heartfelt  sincerity,  and  were  in- 
vited by  him  to  the  hall  to  take  something  to 
keep  out  the  cold  of  the  weather;  and  I  heard 
blessings  uttered  by  several  of  the  poor,  which 
convinced  me  that,  in  the  midst  of  his  enjoy- 
ments, the  worthy  old  cavalier  had  not  forgot- 
ten the  true  Christmas  virtue  of  charity. 

On  our  way  homeward  his  heart  seemed 
overflowed  with  generous  and  happy  feelings. 
As  we  passed  over  a  rising  round  which  com- 
manded something  of  a  prospect,  the  sounds  of 
rustic  merriment  now  and  then  reached  our 
ears;  the  squire  paused  for  a  few  moments  and 

*"Ule!  Ule! 

Three  puddings  in  a  pule ; 
Crack  nuts  and  cry  ule!" 


52  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

looked  around  with  an  air  of  inexpressible  be- 
nignity. The  beauty  of  the  day  was  of  itself 
sufficient  to  inspire  philanthropy.  Notwith- 
standing the  frostiness  of  the  morning,  the  sun 
in  his  cloudless  journey  had  acquired  sufficient 
power  to  melt  away  the  thin  covering  of  snow 
from  every  southern  declivity,  and  to  bring 
out  the  living  green  which  adorns  an  English 
landscape  even  in  mid-winter.  Large  tracts  of 
smiling  verdure  contrasted  with  the  dazzling 
whiteness  of  the  shaded  slopes  and  hollows. 
Every  sheltered  bank  on  which  the  broad  rays 
rested  yielded  its  silver  rill  of  cold  and  limpid 
water,  glittering  through  the  dripping  grass, 
and  sent  up  slight  exhalations  to  contribute  to 
the  thin  haze  that  hung  just  above  the  surface 
of  the  earth.  There  was  something  truly 
cheering  in  this  triumph  of  warmth  and  ver- 
dure over  the  frosty  thraldom  of  winter;  it 
was,  as  the  squire  observed,  an  emblem  of 
Christmas  hospitality  breaking  through  the 
chills  of  ceremony  and  selfishness  and  thaw- 
ing every  heart  into  a  flow.  He  pointed  with 
pleasure  to  the  indications  of  good  cheer  reek- 
ing from  the  chimneys  of  the  comfortable 
farm-houses  and  low  thatched  cottages.  "I 
love,"  said  he,  "to  see  this  day  well  kept  by 
rich  and  poor ;  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  one 
day  in  the  year,  at  least,  when  you  are  sure  of 
being  welcome  wherever  you  go,  and  of  hav- 
ing, as  it  were,  the  world  all  thrown  open  to 
you;  and  I  am  almost  disposed  to  join  with 
Poor  Robin  in  his  malediction  on  every  churl- 
ish enemy  to  this  honest  festival : 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  63 

"  'Those  who  at  Christmas  do  repine, 

And  would  fain  hence  dispatch  him, 
May  they  with  old  Duke  Humphry  dine, 
Or  else  may  Squire  Ketch  catch  'em.'  " 

The  squire  went  on  to  lament  the  deplorable 
decay  of  the  games  and  amusements  which 
were  once  prevalent  at  this  season  among  the 
lower  orders  and  countenanced  by  the  higher, 
when  the  old  halls  of  castles  and  manor-houses 
were  thrown  open  at  daylight ;  when  the  tables 
were  covered  with  brawn  and  beef  and  hum- 
ming ale;  when  the  harp  and  the  carol  re- 
sounded all  day  long ;  and  when  rich  and  poor 
were  alike  welcome  to  enter  and  make  merry.  * 
"Our  old  games  and  local  customs,"  said  he, 
"had  a  great  effect  in  making  the  peasant  fond 
of  his  home,  and  the  promotion  of  them  by 
the  gentry  made  him  fond  of  his  lord.  They 
made  the  times  merrier  and  kinder  and  better, 
and  I  can  truly  say,  with  one  of  our  old  poets, 

"  'I  like  them  well;  the  curious  predseness 
And  all-pretended  gravity  of  those 
That  seek  to  banish  hence  these  harmless  sports, 
Have  thrust  away  much  ancient  honesty." 

"The nation,"  continued  he,  "is  altered;  we 
have  almost  lost  our  simple  hearted  peasantry. 

*"An  English  gentleman,  at  the  opening  of  the  great 
day — i.  e.,  on  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning — had  all 
his  tenants  and  neighbors  enter  his  hall  by  daybreak. 
The  strong  beer  was  broached,  and  the  black-jacks  went 
plentifully  about,  with  toast,  sugar  and  nutmeg,  and  good 
Cheshire  cheese.  The  Hackin  (the  great  sausage)  must 
be  boiled  by  daybreak,  or  else  two  young  men  must 
take  the  maiden  (i.  e.,  the  cook)  by  the  arms  and  run 
her  round  the  market-place  till  she  is  shamed  of  her 
laziness." — Round  about  our  Sea-Coal  Fire. 


54  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

They  have  broken  asunder  from  the  higher 
classes,  and  seem  to  think  their  interests  are 
separate.  They  have  become  too  knowing, 
and  begin  to  read  newspapers,  listen  to  ale- 
house politicians,  and  talk  of  reform.  I  think 
one  mode  to  keep  them  in  good-humor  in  these 
hard  times  would  be  for  the  nobility  and  gen- 
try to  pass  more  time  on  their  estates,  mingle 
more  among  the  country-people,  and  set  the 
merry  old  English  games  going  again. ' ' 

Such  was  the  good  squire's  project  for  miti- 
gating public  discontent:  and,'  indeed,  he  had 
once  attempted  to  put  his  doctrine  in  practice, 
and  a  few  years  before  he  had  kept  open  house 
during  the  holidays  in  the  old  style.  The 
country-people,  however,  did  not  understand 
how  to  play  their  parts  in  the  scene  of  hospi- 
tality ;  many  uncouth  circumstances  occurred ; 
the  manor  was  overrun  by  all  the  vagrants  of 
the  country,  and  more  beggars  drawn  into  the 
neighborhood  in  one  week  than  the  parish 
officers  could  get  rid  of  in  a  year.  Since  then 
he  had  contented  himself  with  inviting  the 
decent  part  of  the  neighboring  peasantry  to 
call  at  the  hall  on  Christmas  Day,  and  with 
distributing  beef,  and  bread,  and  ale  among 
the  poor,  that  they  might  make  merry  in  their 
own  dwellings. 

We  had  not  been  long  home  when  the  sound 
of  music  was  heard  from  a  distance.  A  band 
of  country  lads,  without  coats,  their  shirt- 
sleeves fancifully  tied  with  ribbons,  their  hats 
decorated  with  greens,  and  clubs  in  their 
hands,  was  seen  advancing  up  the  avenue, 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  C6 

followed  by  a  large  number  of  villagers  and 
peasantry.  They  stopped  before  the  hall 
door,  where  the  music  struck  up  a  peculiar 
air,  and  the  lads  performed  a  curious  and  in- 
tricate dance,  advancing,  retreating,  and  strik- 
ing their  clubs  together,  keeping  exact  time 
to  the  music ;  while  one,  whimsically  crowned 
with  a  fox's  skin,  the  tail  of  which  flaunted 
down  his  back,  kept  capering  round  the  skirts 
of  the  dance  and  rattling  a  Christmas  box  with 
many  antic  gesticulations. 

The  squire  eyed  this  fanciful  exhibition  with 
great  interest  and  delight,  and  gave  me  a  full 
account  of  its  origin,  which  he  traced  to  the 
times  when  the  Romans  held  possession  of 
the  island,  plainly  proving  that  this  was  a  lineal 
descendant  of  the  sword  dance  of  the  ancients. 
"It  was  now,"  he  said,  "nearly  extinct,  but  he 
had  accidentally  met  with  traces  of  it  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  had  encouraged  its  revival ; 
though,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  was  too  apt  to  be 
followed  up  by  the  rough  cudgel  play  and 
broken  heads  in  the  evening. ' ' 

After  the  dance  was  concluded  the  whole 
party  was  entertained  with  brawn  and  beef 
and  stout  home-brewed.  The  squire  himself 
mingled  among  the  rustics,  and  was  received 
with  awkward  demonstrations  of  deference  and 
regard.  It  is  true  I  perceived  two  or  three  of 
the  younger  peasants,  as  they  were  raising  their 
tankards  to  their  mouths,  when  the  squire's 
back  was  turned  making  something  of  a  grim- 
ace, and  giving  each  other  the  wink ;  but  the 
moment  they  caught  my  eye  they  pulled  grave 
12 


56  CHRISTMAS  DAY, 

faces  and  were  exceedingly  demure.  With 
Master  Simon,  however,  they  all  seemed  more 
at  their  ease.  His  varied  occupations  and 
amusements  had  made  him  well  known 
throughout  the  neighborhood.  He  was  a 
visitor  at  every  farm-house  and  cottage,  gos- 
siped with"  the  farmers  and  their  wives, 
romped  with  their  daughters,  and,  like  that 
type  of  a  vagrant  bachelor,  the  humblebee, 
tolled  the  sweets  from  all  the  rosy  lips  of  the 
country  round. 

The  bashfulness  of  the  guests  soon  gave  way 
before  good  cheer  and  affability.  There  is 
something  genuine  and  affectionate  in  the  gay- 
ety  of  the  lower  orders  when  it  is  excited  by 
the  bounty  and  familiarity  of  those  above 
them;  the  warm  glow  of  gratitude  enters  into 
their  mirth,  and  a  kind  word  or  a  small  pleas- 
antry frankly  uttered  by  a  patron  gladdens  the 
heart  of  the  dependant  more  than  oil  and 
wine.  When  the  squire  had  retired  the  merri- 
ment increased,  and  there  was  much  joking 
and  laughter,  particularly  between  Master 
Simon  and  a  hale,  ruddy-faced,  white-headed 
farmer  who  appeared  to  be  the  wit  of  the  vil- 
lage; for  I  observed  all  his  companions  to  wait 
with  open  mouths  for  his  retorts,  and  burst  into 
a  gratuitous  laugh  before  they  could  well  un- 
derstand them. 

The  whole  house  indeed  seemed  abandoned 
to  merriment:  as  I  passed  to  my  room  to  dress 
for  dinner,  I  heard  the  sound  of  music  in  a 
small  court,  and,  looking  through  a  window 
that  commanded  it,  I  perceived  a  band  of 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  67 

f 

wandering  musicians  with  pandean  pipes  and 
tambourine;  a  pretty  coquettish  housemaid 
was  dancing  a  jig  with  a  smart  country  lad, 
while  several  of  the  other  servants  were  look- 
ing on.  In  the  midst  of  her  sport  the  girl 
caught  a  glimpse  of  my  face  at  the  window, 
and.  coloring  up,  ran  off  with  a  air  of  roguish 
affected  confusion. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 

Lo,  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast! 

Let  every  man  be  jolly. 
Eache  roome  with  yvie  leaves  is  drest, 

And  every  post  with  holly. 
Now  all  our  neighbors'  chimneys  smoke, 

And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning; 
Their  ovens  they  with  bak't  meats  choke 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 
Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie, 
And  if,  for  cold,  it  hap  to  die, 
Wee'l  bury  't  in  a  Christmas  pye, 
And  evermore  be  merry. 

Withers,  Juvenilia. 

I  had  finished  my  toilet,  and  was  loitering 
with  Frank  Bracebridge  in  the  library,  when 
we  heard  a  distant  thwacking1  sound,  which 
he  informed  me  was  a  signal  for  the  serving 
up  of  the  dinner.  The  squire  kept  up  old 
customs  in  kitchen  as  well  as  hall,  and  the  roll- 
ing-pin, struck  upon  the  dresser  by  the  cook, 
summoned  the  servants  to  carry  in  the  meats. 

Just  in  this  nick  the  cook  knock' d  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summons  did  obey ; 
Each  serving-man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
March'd  boldly  up,  like  our  train-band, 

Presented  and  away.* 

The  dinner  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall, 

*  Sir  John  Suckling. 

58 


CHRISTMAS    DINNER.  69 

where  the  squire  always  held  his  Christmas 
banquet.  A  blazing  crackling  fire  of  logs  had 
been  heaped  on  to  warm  the  spacious  apart- 
ment, and  the  flame  went  sparkling  and 
wreathing  up  the  wide-mouthed  chimney. 
The  great  picture  of  the  crusader  and  his 
white  horse  had  been  profusely  decorated  with 
greens  for  the  occasion,  and  hollv  and  ivy  had 
likewise  been  wreathed  round  the  helmet  and 
weapons  on  the  opposite  wall,  which  I  un- 
derstoocf"vvere  the  arms  of  the  same  warrior.  I 
must  own,  by  the  by,  I  had  strong  doubts 
about  the  authenticity  of  the  painting  and 
armor  as  having  belonged  to  the  crusader, 
they  certainly  having  the  stamp  of  more  recent 
days ;  but  I  was  told  that  the  painting  had  been 
so  considered  time  out  of  mind ;  and  that  as 
to  the  armor,  it  had  been  found  in  a  lumber- 
room  and  elevated  to  its  present  situation  by 
the  squire,  who  at  once  determined  it  to  be 
the  armor  of  the  family  hero;  and  as  he  was 
absolute  authority  on  all  such  subjects  in  his 
own  household,  the  matter  had  passed  into 
current  acceptation.  A  side-board  was  set  out 
just  under  this  chivalric  trophy,  on  which  was 
a  display  of  plate  that  might  have  vied  (at 
least  in  variety)  with  Belshazzar's  parade  of 
the  vessels  of  the  temple:  "flagons,  cans, 
cups,  beakers,  goblets,  basins,  and  ewers," 
the  gorgeous  utensils  of  good  companionship 
that  had  gradually  accumulated  through  many 
generations  of  jovial  housekeepers.  Before 
these  stood  the  two  Yule  candles,  beaming  like 
two  stars  of  the  first  magnitude ;  other  lights 


60  CHRISTMAS    DINNER. 

were  distributed  in  branches,   and  the  whole 
array  glittered  like  a  firmament  of  silver. 

We  were  ushered  into  this  banqueting  scene 
with  the  sound  of  minstrelsy,  the  old  harper 
being  seated  on  a  stool  beside  the  fireplace  and 
twanging  his  instrument  with  a  vast  deal 
more  power  than  melody.  Never  did  Christ- 
mas board  display  a  more  goodly  and  gracious 
assemblage  of  countenances;  those  who  were 
not  handsome  were  at  least  happy,  and  happi- 
ness is  a  rare  improver  of  your  hard-favored 
visage.  I  always  consider  an  old  English 
family  as  well  worth  studying  as  a  collection 
of  Holbein's  portraits  or  Albert  Durer's 
prints.  There  is  much  antiquarian  lore  to  be 
acquired,  much  knowledge  of  the  physiogno- 
mies of  former  times.  Perhaps  it  may  be  from 
having  continually  before  their  eyes  those  rows 
of  old  family  portraits,  with  which  the  man- 
sions of  this  country  are  stocked ;  certain  it  is 
that  the  quaint  features  of  antiquity  are  often 
most  faithfully  perpetuated  in  these  ancient 
lines,  and  I  have  traced  an  old  family  nose 
through  a  whole  picture-gallery,  legitimately 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation 
almost  from  the  time  of  the  Conquest.  Some- 
thing of  the  kind  was  to  be  observed  in  the 
worthy  company  around  me.  Many  of  their 
faces  had  evidently  originated  in  a  Gothic  age, 
'and  been  merely  copied  by  succeeding  genera- 
tions; and  there  was  one  little  girl  in  particu- 
lar, of  staid  demeanor,  with  a  high  Roman 
nose  and  an  antique  vinegar  aspect,  who  was 
a  great  favorite  of  the  squire's,  being,  as  he 


CHRISTMAS    DINNER.  61 

said,  a  Bracebridge  all  over,  and  the  very 
counterpart  of  one  of  his  ancestors  who  figured 
in  the  court  of  Henry  VIII. 

The  parson  said  grace,  which  was  not  a  short 
familiar  one,  such  as  is  commonly  addressed 
to  the  Deity  in  these  unceremonious  days,  but 
a  long,  courtly,  well-worded  one  of  the  ancient 
school.  There  was  now  a  pause,  as  if  some- 
thing was  expected,  when  suddenly  the  butler 
entered  the  hall  with  some  degree  of  bustle : 
he  was  attended  by  a  servant  on  each  side 
with  a  large  wax-light,  and  bore  a  silver  dish 
on  which  was  an  enormous  pig's  head  deco- 
rated with  rosemary,  with  a  lemon  in  its 
mouth,  which  was  placed  with  great  formality 
at  the  head  of  the  table.  The  moment  this 
pageant  made  its  appearance  the  harper  struck 
up  a  flourish ;  at  the  conclusion  of  which  the 
young  Oxonian,  on  receiving  a  hint  from  the 
squire,  gave,  with  an  air  of  the  most  comic 
gravity,  an  old  carol,  the  first  verse  of  which 
was  as  follows: 

Caput  apri  defero 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 
The  boar's  head  in  hand  bring  I, 
With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary. 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merrily 

Qui  estis  in  convivio. 

Though  prepared  to  witness  many  of  these 
little  eccentricities,  from  being  apprised  of  the 
peculiar  hobby  of  mine  host,  yet  I  confess  the 
parade  with  which  so  odd  a  dish  was  intro- 
duced somewhat  perplexed  me,  until  I 
gathered  from  the  conversation  of  the  squire 


62  CHRISTMAS    DINNER. 

and  the  parson  that  it  was  meant  to  represent 
the  bringing  in  of  the  boar's  head,  a  dish  for- 
merly served  up  with  much  ceremony  and  the 
sound  of  minstrelsy  and  song  at  great  tables 
on  Christmas  Day.  "I  like  the  old  custom, " 
said  the  squire,  "not  merely  because  it  is 
stately  and  pleasing  in  itself,  but  because  it 
was  observed  at  the  college  at  Oxford  at  which 
I  was  educated.  When  I  hear  the  old  song 
chanted  it  brings  to  mind  the  time  when  I  was 
young  and  gamesome,  and  the  noble  old  col- 
lege hall,  and  my  fellow-students  loitering 
about  in  their  black  gowns;  many  of  whom, 
poor  lads !  are  now  in  their  graves. ' ' 

The  parson,  however,  whose  mind  was  not 
haunted  by  such  associations,  and  who  was 
always  more  taken  up  with  the  text  than  the 
sentiment,  objected  to  the  Oxonian's  version 
of  the  carol,  which  he  affirmed  was  different 
from  that  sung  at  college.  He  went  on,  with 
the  dry  perseverance  of  a  commentator,  to 
give  the  college  reading,  accompanied  by  sun- 
dry annotations,  addressing  himself  at  first  to 
the  company  at  large ;  but,  finding  their  atten- 
tion gradually  diverted  to  other  talk  and  other 
objects,  he  lowered  his  tone  as  his  number  of 
auditors  diminished,  until  he  concluded  his 
remarks  in  an  under  voice  to  a  fat-headed  old 
gentleman  next  him  who  was  silently  engaged 
in  the  discussion  of  a  huge  plateful  of  turkey.* 

*  The  old  ceremony  of  serving  up  the  boar's  head  on 
Christmas  Day  is  still  observed  in  the  hall  of  Queen's 
College,  Oxford.  I  was  favored  by  the  parson  with  a 
copy  of  the  carol  as  now  sung,  and  as  it  may  be  accept- 


CHRISTMAS    DINNER.  63 

The  table  was  literally  loaded  with '  good 
cheer,  and  presented  an  epitome  of  country 
abundance  in  this  season  of  overflowing  lar- 
ders. A  distinguished  post  was  allotted  to 
"ancient  sirloin,"  as  mine  host  termed  it, 
being,  as  he  added,  "the  standard  of  old  Eng- 
lish hospitality,  and  a  joint  of  goodly  presence, 
and  full  of  expectation. ' '  There  were  several 
dishes  quaintly  decorated,  and  which  had 
evidently  something  traditional  in  their  em- 
bellishments, but  about  which,  as  I  did  not  like 
to  appear  over-curious,  I  asked  no  questions. 

I  could  not,  however,  but  notice  a  pie  mag- 
nificently decorated  with  peacock's  feathers,  in 
imitation  of  the  tail  of  that  bird,  which  over- 
shadowed a  considerable  tract  of  the  table. 
This,  the  squire  confessed  with  some  little  hes- 

able  to  such  of  my  readers  as  are  curious  in  these  grave 
and  learned  matters,  I  give  it  entire: 

The  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
Bedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary; 
And  I  pray  you,  my  masters,  be  merry 

Quot  estis  in  convivio 

Caput  apri  defero. 

Reddens  laudes  domino. 

The  boar's  head,  as  I  understand, 
Is  the  rarest  dish  in  all  this  land, 
Which  thus  bedeck'd  with  a  gay  garland 
Let  us  servire  cantico 
Caput  apri  defero,  etc. 

Our  steward  hath  provided  this 
In  honor  of  the  King  of  Bliss, 
Which  on  this  day  to  be  served  is 
In  Reginensi  Atrio. 
Caput  apri  defero,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 


64  CHRISTMAS    DINNER. 

itation,  was  a  pheasant  pie,  though  a  peacock 
pie  was  certainly  the  most  authentical;  but 
there  had  been  such  a  mortality  among  the 
peacocks  this  season  that  he  could  not  prevail 
upon  himself  to  have  one  killed.* 

It  would  be  tedious,  perhaps,  to  my  wiser 
readers,  who  may  not  have  that  foolish  fond- 
ness for  odd  and  obsolete  things  to  which  I  am 
a  little  given,  were  I  to  mention  the  other 
makeshifts  of  this  worthy  old  humorist,  by 
which  he  was  endeavoring  to  follow  up,  though 
at  humble  distance,  the  quaint  customs  of 
antiquity.  I  was  pleased,  however,  to  see  the 
respect  shown  to  his  whims  by  his  children  and 
relatives;  who,  indeed,  entered  readily  into  the 
full  spirit  of  them,  and  seemed  all  well  versed 
in  their  parts,  having  doubtless  been  present 

~~^The  peacock   was   anciently  in  great  demand  for 
stately  entertainments.     Sometimes  it  was  made  into 
a  pie  at  one  end  of  which  the  head  appeared  above  the 
crust  in  all  its  plumage,  with  the  beak  richly  gilt;  at  the 
other  end  the  toil  was  dispayed     Such  pies  were  served 
up  at  the  solemn  banquets  of  chivalry   when  knights- 
errant  pledged  themselves  to  undertake  any  perilous 
enterprise,  whence  came  the  ancient  oath,  used  by  Jus- 
ice  Shallow,  '  'by  cock  and  pie. "        .......     .  ^  rinr:cf 

The  peacock  was  also  an  important  dish  for  the  Chr 
mas  feast;  and  Massinger  in  his  "City  Madam,    gives 
some  idea  of  the  extravagance  with  wnich  this,  as  well 
as  other  dishes,  was  prepared  for  the  gorgeous  revels  of 
the  olden  times: 

Men  may  talk  of  Country  Christmasses, 
Their  thirty  pound  butter'd  eggs,  their  pies  of  carps 

Thefr^pheasants  drench'd  with  ambergris:  the  carcases 
v  of  three  fat  wethers  bruised  for  gravy  to  make  sauce 
for  a  single  peacock! 


CHRISTMAS    DINNER.  65 

at  many  a  rehearsal.  I  was  amused,  too,  at  the 
air  of  profound  gravity  with  which  the  butler 
and  other  servants  executed  the  duties  assigned 
them,  however  eccentric.  They  had  an  old- 
fashioned  look,  having,  for  the  most  part,  been 
brought  up  in  the  household  and  grown  into 
keeping  with  the  antiquated  mansion  and  the 
humors  of  its  lord,  and  most  probably  looked 
upon  all  his  whimsical  regulations  as  the  estab- 
lished laws  of  honorable  housekeeping. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed  the  butler 
brought  in  a  huge  silver  vessel  of  rare  and  cur- 
ious workmanship,  which  he  placed  before  the 
squire.  Its  appearance  was  hailed  with 
acclamation,  being  the  Wassail  Bowl,  so 
renowned  in  Christmas  festivity.  The  con- 
tents had  been  prepared  by  the  squire  himself ; 
for  it  was  a  beverage  in  the  skilful  mixture  of 
which  he  particularly  prided  himself,  alleging 
that  it  was  too  abstruse  and  complex  for  the 
comprehension  of  an  ordinary  servant.  It  was 
a  potation,  indeed,  that  might  well  make  the 
heart  of  a  toper  leap  within  him,  being  com- 
posed of  the  richest  and  raciest  wines,  highly 
spiced  and  sweetened,  with  roasted  apples  bob- 
bing about  the  surface.  * 

The  old  gentleman's  whole  countenance 
beamed  with  a  serene  look  of  indwelling  delight 
as  he  stirred  this  mighty  bowl.  Having  raised 

*The  Wassail  Bowl  was  sometimes  composed  of  ale 
instead  of  wine,  with  nutmeg,  sugar,  toast,  ginger,  and 
roasted  crabs ;  in  this  way  the  nut-brown  beverage  is 
still  prepared  in  some  old  families  and  round  the 
hearths  of  substantial  farmers  at  Christmas.  It  is  also 


68  CHRISTMAS    DINNER. 

it  to  his  lips,  with  a  hearty  wish  of  a  merry 
Christmas  to  all  present,  he  sent  it  brimming 
round  the  board,  for  every  one  to  follow  his 
example,  according  to  the  primitive  style,  pro- 
nouncing it  "the  ancient  fountain  of  good  feel- 
ing, where  all  hearts  met  together."* 

There  was  much  laughing  and  rallying  as 
the  honest  emblem  of  Christmas  joviality 
circulated  and  was  kissed  rather  coyly  by  the 
ladies.  When  it  reached  Master  Simon,  he 
raised  it  in  both  hands,  and  with  the  air  of  a 
boon  companion  struck  up  an  old  Wassail 
Chanson : 

The  brown  bowle, 

The  merry  brown  bowle, 

As  it  goes  round-about-a. 

Fill 

Still, 

Let  the  world  say  what  it  will. 
And  drink  your  fill  all  out-a. 

The  deep  canne, 

The  merry  deep  canne, 

As  thou  dost  freely  quaff-a, 

called  Lamb's  Wool,  and  is  celebrated  by  Herrick  in  his 
"Twelfth  Night:" 

Next  crowne  the  bowle  full 

With  gentle  Lamb's  Wool ; 
Add  sugar,  nutmeg,  and  ginger, 

With  store  of  ale  too, 

And  thus  ye  must  doe 
To  make  the  Wassaile  a  swinger. 

*"The  custom  of  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup  gave 
place  to  each  having  his  cup.  When  the  steward  came 
to  the  doore  with  the  Wassel,  he  was  to  cry  three  times 
Wassel,  Wassel,  Wassel,  and  then  the  chappell  (chap- 
lain) was  to  answer  with  a  song," — Archaeologia. 


CHRISTMAS    DINNER.  67 

Sing 

Fling, 

Be  as  merry  as  a  king, 
And  sound  a  lusty  laugh-a.* 

Much  of  the  conversation  during  dinner 
turned  upon  family  topics,  to  which  I  was  a 
stranger.  There  was,  however,  a  great  deal 
of  rallying  of  Master  Simon  about  some  gay 
widow  with  whom  he  was  accused  of  having  a 
flirtation.  This  attack  was  commenced  by  the 
ladies,  but  it  was  continued  throughout  the 
dinner  by  the  flat-headed  old  gentleman  next 
the  parson  with  the  persevering  assiduity  of  a 
slow  hound,  being  one  of  those  long-winded 
jokers,  who,  though  rather  dull  at  starting 
game,  are  unrivaled  for  their  talents  in  hunting 
it  down.  At  every  pause  in  the  general  con- 
versation he  renewed  his  bantering  in  pretty 
much  the  same  terms,  winking  hard  at  me 
with  both  eyes  whenever  he  gave  Master  Simon 
what  he  considered  a  home-thrust.  The  latter, 
indeed,  seemed  fond  of  being  teased  on  the 
subject,  as  old  bachelors  are  apt  to  be,  and  he 
took  occasion  to  inform  me,  in  an  undertone, 
that  the  lady  in  question  was  a  prodigiously 
fine  woman  and  drove  her  own  curricle. 

The  dinner-time  passed  away  in  this  flow  of 
innocent  hilarity,  and,  though  the  old  hall 
may  have  resounded  in  its  time  with  many  a 
scene  of  broader  rout  and  revel,  yet  I  doubt 
whether  it  ever  witnessed  more  honest  and 
genuine  enjoyment.  How  easy  it  is  for  one 

*From  Poor  Robin's  Almanack. 


68  CHRISTMAS    DINNER. 

benevolent  being  to  diffuse  pleasure  around 
him !  and  how  truly  is  a  kind  heart  a  fountain 
of  gladness,  making  everything  in  its  vicinity 
to  freshen  into  smiles!  The  joyous  disposition 
of  the  worthy  squire  was  perfectly  contagious ; 
he  was  happy  himself,  and  disposed  to  make 
all  the  world  happy,  and  the  little  eccentric- 
ities of  his  humor  did  but  season,  in  a  manner, 
the  sweetness  of  his  philanthropy. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  conversa- 
tion, as  usual,  became  still  more  animated; 
many  good  things  were  broached  which  had 
been  thought  of  during  dinner,  but  which 
would  not  exactly  do  for  a  lady's  ear;  and, 
though  I  cannot  positively  affirm  that  there 
was  much  wit  uttered,  yet  I  have  certainly 
heard  many  contests  of  rare  wit  produce  much 
less  laughter.  Wit,  after  all,  is  a  mighty  tart, 
pungent  ingredient,  and  much  too  acid  for 
some  stomachs ;  but  honest  good-humor  is  the 
oil  and  wine  of  a  merry  meeting,  and  there  is 
no  jovial  companionship  equal  to  that  where 
the  jokes  are  rather  small  and  the  laughter 
abundant. 

The  squire  told  several  long  stories  of  early 
college  pranks  and  adventures,  in  some  of 
which  the  parson  had  been  a  sharer,  though  in 
looking  at  the  latter  it  required  some  effort  of 
imagination  to  figure  such  a  little  dark  anat- 
omy of  a  man  into  the  perpetrator  of  a  madcap 
gambol.  Indeed,  the  two  college  chums  pre- 
sented pictures  of  what  men  may  be  made  by 
their  different  lots  in  life.  The  squire  had 
left  the  university  to  live  lustily  on  his 


CHRISTMAS    DINNER.  69 

paternal  domains  in  the  vigorous  enjoyment  of 
prosperity  and  sunshine,  and  had  flourished  on 
to  a  hearty  and  florid  old  age;  whilst  the  poor 
parson,  on  the  contrary,  had  dried  and  withered 
away  among  dusty  tomes  in  the  silence  and 
shadows  of  his  study.  Still,  there  seemed  to 
be  a  spark  of  almost  extinguished  fire  feebly 
glimmering  in  the  bottom  of  his  soul ;  and  as 
the  squire  hinted  at  a  sly  story  of  the  parson 
and  a  pretty  milkmaid  whom  they  once  met  on 
the  banks  of  the  Isis,  the  old  gentleman  made 
an  "alphabet  of  faces,"  which,  as  far  as  I 
could  decipher  his  physiognomy,  I  verily  believe 
was  indicative  of  laughter;  indeed,  I  have 
rarely  met  with  an  old  gentleman  that  took 
absolute  offence  at  the  imputed  gallantries  of 
his  youth. 

I  found  the  tide  of  wine  and  wassail  fast 
gaining  on  the  dry  land  of  sober  judgment. 
The  company  grew  merrier  and  louder  as  their 
jokes  grew  duller.  Master  Simon  was  in  as 
chirping  a  humor  as  a  grasshopper  filled  with 
dew;  his  old  songs  grew  of  a  warmer  complex- 
ion, and  he  began  to  talk  maudlin  about  the 
widow.  He  even  gave  a  long  song  about  the 
wooing  of  a  widow  which  he  informed  me  he 
had  gathered  from  an  excellent'  black-letter 
work  entitled  "Cupid's  Solicitor  for  Love,"  con- 
taining store  of  good  advice  fcr  bachelors,  and 
which  he  promised  to  lend  me ;  the  first  verse 
was  to  this  effect : 

He  that  will  woo  a  widow  must  not  dally, 
He  must  make  hay  while  the  sun  doth  shine 

He  must  not  stand  with  her,  shall  I,  shall  I, 
But  boldly  say,  Widow,  thou  must  be  mine. 


70  CHRISTMAS    DINNER, 

This  song  inspired  the  fat-headed  old  gentle- 
man, who  made  several  attempts  to  tell  a  rather 
broad  story  out  of  Joe  Miller  that  was  pat  to 
the  purpose ;  but  he  always  stuck  in  the  middle, 
everybody  recollecting  the  latter  part  except- 
ing himself.  The  parson,  too,  began  to  show 
the  effects  of  good  cheer,  having  gradually 
settled  down  into  a  doze  and  his  wig  sitting 
most  suspiciously  on  one  side.  Just  at  this 
juncture  we  were  summoned  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  I  suspect,  at  the  private  instigation 
of  mine  host,  whose  joviality  seemed  always 
tempered  with  a  proper  love  of  decorum. 

After  the  dinner-table  was  removed  the  hall 
was  given  up  to  the  younger  members  of  the 
family,  who,  prompted  to  all  kind  of  noisy 
mirth  by  the  Oxonian  and  Master  Simon,  made 
its  old  walls  ring  with  their  merriment  as  they 
played  at  romping  games.  I  delight  in  wit- 
nessing the  gambols  of  children,  and  partic- 
ularly at  this  happy  holiday  season,  and 
could  not  help  stealing  out  of  the  drawing- 
room  one  hearing  one  of  their  peals  of  laughter. 
I  found  them  at  the  game  of  blindman's-buff. 
Master  Simon,  who  was  the  leader  of  their 
revels,  and  seemed  on  all  occasions  to  fulfill 
the  office  of  that  ancient  potentate,  the  Lord 
of  Misrule,*  was  blinded  in  the  midst  of  the 
hall.  The  little  beings  were  as  busy  about 

*At  Christmasse  there  was  in  the  Kinges  house,  where- 
soever hee  was  lodged,  a  lorde  of  misrule  or  mayster  of 
merie  disportes,  and  the  like  had  ye  in  the  house  of 
every  nobleman  of  honor,  or  good  worshippe,  were  he 
spirituall  or  temporall. — Stow. 


CHRISTMAS    DINNER.  71 

him  as  the  mock  fairies  about  Falstaff,  pinch- 
ing him,  plucking  at  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  and 
tickling  him  with  straws.  One  fine  blue-eyed 
girl  of  about  thirteen,  with  her  flaxen  hair  all 
in  beautiful  confusion,  her  frolic  face  in  a 
glow,  her  frock  half  torn  off  her  shoulders,  a 
complete  picture  of  a  romp,  was  the  chief 
tormentor;  and,  from  the  slyness  with  which 
Master  Simon  avoided  the  smaller  game  and 
hemmed  this  wild  little  nymph  in  corners,  and 
obliged  her  to  jump  shrieking  over  chairs,  I 
suspected  the  rogue  of  being  not  a  whit  more 
blinded  than  was  convenient. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room  I 
found  the  company  seated  round  the  fire  listen- 
ing to  the  parson,  who  was  deeply  ensconced 
in  a  high-backed  oaken  chair,  the  work  of  some 
cunning  artificer  of  yore,  which  had  been 
brought  from  the  library  for  his  particular 
accommodation.  From  this  venerable  piece 
of  furniture,  with  which  his  shadowy  figure 
and  dark  weazen  face  so  admirably  accorded, 
he  was  dealing  out  strange  accounts  of  the  pop- 
ular superstitions  and  legends  of  the  surround- 
ing country,  with  which  he  had  become 
acquainted  in  the  course  of  his  antiquarian 
researches.  I  am  half  inclined  to  think  that 
the  old  gentleman  was  himself  somewhat  tinc- 
tured with  superstition,  as  men  are  very  apt  to 
be  who  live  a  recluse  and  studiotis^life  in  a 
sequestered  part  of  the  country  and  pore  over 
black-letter  tracts,  so  often  filled  with  the 
marvelous  and  supernatural.  He  gave  us 

several     anecdotes    of     the    fancies    of    the 
l* 


72  CHRISTMAS    DINNER. 

neighboring  peasantry  concerning  the  effigy  of 
the  crusader  which  lay  on  the  tomb  by  the 
church  altar.  As  it  was  the  only  monument  of 
the  kind  in  that  part  of  the  country,  it  had 
always  been  regarded  with  feelings  of  supersti- 
tion by  the  good  wives  of  the  village.  It  was 
said  to  get  up  from  the  tomb  and  walk  the 
rounds  of  the  churchyard  in  stormy  nights,  par- 
ticularly when  it  thundered;  and  one  old 
woman,  whose  cottage  bordered  on  the  church- 
yard, had  seen  it  through  the  windows  of  the 
church,  when  the  moon  shone,  slowly  pacing 
tip  and  down  the  aisles.  It  was  the  belief  that 
some  wrong  had  been  left  unredressed  by  the 
deceased,  or  some  treasure  hidden,  which  kept 
the  spirit  in  a  state  of  trouble  and  restlessness. 
Some  talked  of  gold  and  jewels  buried  in  the 
tomb,  over  which  the  spectre  kept  watch ;  and 
there  was  a  story  current  of  a  sexton  in  old 
times  who  endeavored  to  break  his  way  to  the 
coffin  at  night,  but  just  as  he  reached  it  received 
a  violent  blow  from  the  marble  hand  of  the 
effigy,  which  stretched  him  senseless  on  the 
pavement.  These  tales  were  often  laughed  at 
by  some  of  the  sturdier  among  the  rustics,  yet 
when  night  came  on  there  were  many  of  the 
stoutest  unbelievers  that  were  shy  of  venturing 
alone  in  the  footpath  that  led  across  the  church- 
yard. 

From  these  and  other  anecdotes  that  followed 
the  crusader  appeared  to  be  the  favorite  hero 
of  ghost-stories  throughout  the  vicinity.  His 
picture,  which  hung  up  in  the  hall,  was  tnought 
by  the  servants  to  have  something  supernatural 


CHRISTMAS    DINNER.  73 

about  it;  for  they  remarked  that  in  whatever 
part  of  the  hall  you  went  the  eyes  of  the  warrior 
were  still  fixed  on  you.  The  old  porter's  wife, 
too,  at  the  lodge,  who  had  been  born  and 
brought  up  in  the  family,  and  was  a  great  gos- 
sip among  the  maid-servants,  affirmed  that  in 
her  young  days  she  had  often  heard  say  that  on 
Midsummer  Eve,  when  it  was  well  known  all 
kinds  of  ghosts,  goblins,  and  fairies  become 
visible  and  walk  aboard,  the  crusader  used  to 
mount  his  horse,  come  down  from  his  picture, 
ride  about  the  house,  down  the  avenue,  and  so 
to  the  church  to  visit  the  tomb;  on  which  occa- 
sion the  church-door  most  civilly  swung  open 
of  itself ;  not  that  he  needed  it,  for  he  rode 
through  closed  gates,  and  even  stone  walls,  and 
had  been  seen  by  one  of  the  dairymaids  to  pass 
between  two  bars  of  the  great  park  gate,  mak- 
ing himself  as  thin  as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

All  these  superstitions  I  found  had  been  very 
much  countenanced  by  the  squire,  who,  though 
not  superstitious  himself,  was  very  fond  of  see- 
ing others  so.  He  listened  to  every  goblin  tale 
of  the  neighboring  gossips  with  infinite  gravity, 
and  held  the  porter's  wife  in  high  favor  on 
account  of  her  talent  for  the  marvelous.  He 
was  himself  a  great  reader  of  old  legends  and 
romances,  and  often  lamented  that  he  could 
not  believe  in  them ;  for  a  superstitious  person, 
he  thought,  must  live  in  a  kind  of  fairy-land. 

Whilst  we  were  all  attention  to  the  parson's 
stories,  our  ears  were  suddenly  assailed  by  a 
burst  of  heterogeneous  sounds  from  the  hall,  in 
which  were  mingled  something  like  the  clang 


T4  CHRISTMAS    DINNER. 

of  rud«  minstrelsy  with  the  uproar  of  aaany 
small  voices  and  girlish  laughter.  The  door 
suddenly  flew  open,  and  a  train  came  trooping 
into  the  room  that  might  almost  have  been  mis- 
taken for  the  breaking  up  of  the  court  of  Faery. 
That  indefatigable  spirit,  Master  Simon,  in 
the  faithful  discharge  of  his  duties  as  lord  of 
misrule,  had  conceived  the  idea  of  a  Christmas 
mummery  or  masking;  and  having  called  in  to 
his  assistance  the  Oxonian  and  the  young 
officer,  who  were  equally  ripe  for  anything  that 
should  occasion  romping  and  merriment,  they 
had  carried  it  into  instant  effect.  The  old 
house-keeper  had  been  consulted;  the  antique 
clothes-presses  and  wardrobes  rummaged  and 
made  to  yield  up  the  relics  of  finery  that  had 
not  seen  the  light  for  several  generations;  the 
younger  part  of  the  company  had  been  priv- 
ately convened  from  the  parlor  and  hall,  and 
the  whole  had  been  bedizened  out  into  a  bur- 
lesque imitation  of  an  antique  mask.* 

Master  Simon  led  the  van,  as  "Ancient 
Christmas,"  quaintly  appareled  in  a  ruff,  a 
short  cloak,  which  had  very  much  the  aspect 
of  one  of  the  old  housekeeper's  petticoats, 
and  a  hat  that  might  have  served  for  a  village 
steeple,  and  must  indubitably  have  figured  in 
the  days  of  the  Covenanters.  From  under 


*Maskings  or  mummeries  were  favorite  sports  at 
Christmas  in  old  times,  and  the  wardrobes  at  halls  and 
manor-houses  were  often  laid  under  contribution  to 
furnish  dresses  and  fantastic  disguisings.  I  strongly 
suspect  Master  Simon  to  have  taken  the  idea  of  his  from 
Ben  Jonson's  "Masque  of  Christmas." 


CHRISTMAS    DINNER.  75 

this  his  nose  curved  boldly  forth,  flushed  with 
a  frost-bitten  bloom  that  seemed  the  very 
trophy  of  a  December  blast.  He  was  accom- 
panied by  the  blue-eyed  romp,  dished  up,  as 
"Dame  Mince  Pie,"  in  the  venerable  magnifi- 
cence of  a  faded  brocade,  long  stomacher, 
peaked  hat,  and  high-heeled  shoes.  The 
young  officer  appeared  as  Robin  Hood,  in  a 
sporting  dress  of  Kendal  green  and  a  foraging 
cap  with  a  gold  tassel. 

The  costume,  to  be  sure,  did  not  bear  testi- 
mony to  deep  research,  and  there  was  an  evi- 
dent eye  to  the  picturesque,  natural  to  a  young- 
gallant  in  the  presence  of  his  mistress.  The 
fair  Julia  hung  on  his  arm  in  a  pretty  rustic 
dress  as  "Maid  Marian. "  The  rest  of  the  train 
had  been  metamorphosed  in  various  ways;  the 
girls  trussed  up  in  the  finery  of  the  ancient 
belles  of  the  Bracebridge  line,  and  the  strip- 
lings bewhiskered  with  burnt  cork,  and  gravely 
clad  in  broad  skirts,  hanging  sleeves,  and  full- 
bottomed  wigs,  to  represent  the  character  of 
Roast  Beef,  Plum  Pudding,  and  other  worthies 
celebrated  in  ancient  maskings.  The  whole 
was  under  the  control  of  the  Oxonian  in  the 
appropriate  character  of  Misrule;  and  I 
observed  that  he  exercised  rather  a  mischiev- 
ous sway  with  his  wand  over  the  smaller  per- 
sonages of  the  pageant. 

The  irruption  of  this  motley  crew  with  beat 
of  drum,  according  to  ancient  custom,  was  the 
consummation  of  uproar  and  merriment. 
Master  Simon  covered  himself  with  glory  by 
the  stateliness  with  which,  as  Ancient  Christ- 


76  CHRISTMAS    DINNER. 

mas,  he  walked  a  minuet  with  the  peerless 
though  giggling  Dame  Mince  Pie.  It  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  dance  of  all  the  characters,  which 
from  its  medley  of  costumes  seemed  as 
though  the  old  family  portraits  had  skipped 
down  from  their  frames  to  join  in  the  sport. 
Different  centuries  were  figuring  at  cross 
hands  and  right  and  left;  the  Dark  Ages  were 
cutting  pirouettes  and  rigadoons;  and  the  days 
of  Queen  Bess  jigging  merrily  down  the  mid- 
dle through  a  line  of  succeeding  generations. 
The  worthy  squire  contemplated  these  fan- 
tastic sports  and  this  resurrection  of  his  old 
wardrobe  with  the  simple  relish  of  childish  de- 
light. He  stood  chuckling  and  rubbing  his 
hands,  and  scarcely  hearing  a  word  the  parson 
said,  notwithstanding  that  the  latter  was  dis- 
coursing most  authentically  on  the  ancient  and 
stately  dance  of  the  Pavon,  or  peacock,  from 
which  he  conceived  the  minuet  to  be  derived.* 
For  my  part,  I  was  in  a  continual  excite- 
ment from  the  varied  scenes  of  whim  and 
innocent  gayety  passing  before  me.  It  was 
inspiring  to  see  wild-eyed  frolic  and  warm- 
hearted hospitality  breaking  out  from  among 
the  chills  and  glooms  of  winter,  and  old  age 
throwing  off  his  apathy  and  catching  once 

*  Sir  John  Hawkins,  speaking  of  the  dance  called  the 
Pavon,  from  "pavo,"  a  peacock,  says,  "It  is  a  grave 
and  majestic  dance ;  the  method  of  dancing  it  anciently 
was  by  gentlemen  dressed  with  caps  and  swords,  by 
those  of  the  long  robe  in  their  gowns,  by  the  peers  in 
their  mantles,  and  by  the  ladies  in  gowns  with  long 
trains,  the  motion  whereof,  in  dancing,  resembled  that 
of  a  peacock." — History  of  Music. 


CHRISTMAS    DINNER.  77 

more  the  freshness  of  youthful  enjoyment.  I 
felt  also  an  interest  in  the  scene  from  the  con- 
sideration that  these  fleeting  customs  were 
posting  fast  into  oblivion,  and  that  this  was 
perhaps  the  only  family  in  England  in  which 
the  whole  of  them  was  still  punctiliously  ob- 
served. There  was  a  quaintness,  too,  mingled 
with  all  this  revelry  that  gave  it  a  peculiar 
zest:  it  was  suited  to  the  time  and  place;  and 
as  the  old  manor-house  almost  reeled  with 
mirth  and  wassail,  it  seemed  echoing  back  the 
joviality  of  long  departed  years.* 

Jbnt  enough  of  Christmas  and  its  gambols ;  it 
is  time  for  me  to  pause  in  this  garrulity.  Me- 
thinks  I  hear  the  questions  asked  by  my 
graver  readers,  "To  what  purpose  is  all  this? 
how  is  the  world  to  be  made  wiser  by  this 
talk?"  Alas!  is  there  not  wisdom  enough  ex- 
tant for  the  instruction  of  the  world?  And  if 
not,  are  there  not  thousands  of  abler  pens  lab- 
oring for  its  improvement?  It  is  so  much 
pleasanter  to  please  than  to  instruct — to  play 
the  companion  rather  than  the  preceptor. 

What,  after  all,  is  the  mite  of  wisdom  that  I 
could  throw  into  the  mass  of  knowledge?  or 
how  am  I  sure  that  my  sagest  deductions  may 

*  At  the  time  of  the  first  publication  of  this  paper  the 
picture  of  an  old-fashioned  Christmas  in  the  country 
was  pronounced  by  some  as  out  of  date.  The  author 
had  afterwards  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  almost  all 
the  customs  above  described,  existing  in  unexpected 
vigor  in  the  skirts  of  Derbyshire  and  Yorkshire,  where 
he  passed  the  Christmas  holidays.  The  reader  will  find 
some  notice  of  them  in  the  author's  account  of  his 
sojourn  at  Newstead  Abbey. 


78  CHRISTMAS    DINNER. 

be  safe  guides  for  the  opinions  of  others?  But 
in  writing  to  amuse,  if  I  fail  the  only  evil  is 
in  my  own  disappointment.  If,  however,  I 
can  by  any  lucky  chance,  in  these  days  of  evil, 
rub  out  one  wrinkle  from  the  brow  of  care  or 
beguile  the  heavy  heart  of  one  moment  of  sor- 
row ;  if  I  can  now  and  then  penetrate  through 
the  gathering  film  of  misanthropy,  prompt  a 
benevolent  view  of  human  nature,  and  make 
my  reader  more  in  good-humor  with  his  fel- 
low-beings and  himself — surely,  surely,  I  shall 
not  then  have  written  entirely  in  tain. 


A  •••' "MI  mil  IHIIIIIII 

000  052  661 


I 


